#this lonely barricade

[separatist-apologist]

They Say I Did Something Bad

Then why's it feel so good?

Summary: Eris Vanserra is in the house

Chapter 3: They Love Me

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Read on AO3

for @sjmkinkmeme

The estate Lord Vanserra possessed was nothing like Elain imagined. She’d pictured some backwoods cabin half buried in the ground. In truth, it was a sprawling marble thing that looked as if it ought to belong to royalty. The sun glimmered off the stone, reflecting outwards in a rainbow of colors scattered over the hilly lawn. The inside was just as lovely, open and airy which Elain preferred. No heavy curtains obscured the natural light and the furniture was arranged in such a way to maximize that sunshine. Lucien left her bags with his staff, lined up outside his home to meet their new mistress. She’d never seen so many people responsible for maintaining one household and the sight reminded her that her home probably ought to have just as many people. They could not afford it.

It was why she was Lady Vanserra instead of Lady Archeron. Absently, Elain wondered if her father had already begun to rebuild his empire or if he had turned his gaze towards his other daughters, having had such good luck with her? 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Lucien murmured, gesturing towards his housekeeper. The woman was much younger than Elain had expected, and lovely to boot. Her blonde hair was twisted neatly against the nape of her neck, her blue dress modest despite the unusually warm autumn day. 

“Lady Vanserra,” his housekeeper murmured, glancing at the other staff. Lucien’s steward and butler trailed after him, likely interested in updating him on what had happened in his absence. “This way, if you don’t mind.”

The housekeeper was typically an older woman, someone in charge of the female staff of the house. This woman couldn’t have been five years older than Elain’s twenty-two. “My name is Arina.” Elain smiled. She needed allies here, if nothing else. Everything she knew about Lucien centered around making his body feel good. Here was a woman who likely had known him her whole life, who had grown up on this estate and risen quickly through the ranks because she’d proven herself trustworthy. Elain didn’t want to make an enemy of her.

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” Elain assured her, following her through the halls. 

“How is Velaris?” Arina asked, making small talk as they began the tour of the rather large estate. Lucien had not lied when he called it large.

“Unchanged, I’m certain,” Elain reassured Arina. “Please, tell me everything I need to know about…”

“The Forest House,” Arina supplied. “Absolutely.”

Elain didn’t expect this woman to tell her all of Lord Vanserra’s secrets. Arina, carrying a clipboard in her hand, seemed far too professional to risk making an enemy of the new Lady, besides. Instead, Arina walked Elain through a typical day in the house as she showed Elain all the most interesting places. A ballroom big enough to host at least two hundred guests, a formal and informal dining hall, depending on her preferences. A drawing room with a piano that led to the back gardens and even a library that would have made her eldest sister weep with satisfaction. 

As they walked, Arina introduced Elain to everyone, from laundresses to gardeners, Arina knew them all. Elain could not keep track of the names and wished they wore name tags, or, at least, she had thought to write them down. As they walked, Arina passed Lucien’s study where he already sat, peering at a stack of papers with studious interest. He didn’t look at her at all, even when she paused and came to the doorway. Arina kept a respectful distance and when it was clear Lucien had no intention of acknowledging her, Elain pressed on.

“Do you require anything?” Arina asked, only stopping once they reached Elain’s chambers in the west wing of the house. “Where does the lord reside?” she asked. Arina nodded.

“On the opposite end of the house, lady. The west had traditionally been the domain of Lady Vanserra. Would you like me to move your things to his suite?”

“No,” Elain assured her. “No, I just…I was merely curious.” “Of course. If you need anything from me, I am at your beck and call.”

Elain was unaware of just how truthful the words would prove to be. She did not see Lucien for a full three days in any true capacity. She walked past his office every day to find him working. He never acknowledged her and Elain, unsure what, if anything, he required of her, didn’t bother to intrude. Instead she became Arina’s constant shadow. Arina managed household expenses, among other things, and with no prodding at all, offered to let Elain see the ledgers. No one had ever let her so close to figures and yet Arina cheerfully declared it was Elain’s right to know how money was spent.

Arina took Elain to the nearby village on her second morning. “In truth, we probably should have asked the Lord to accompany you,” Arina admitted. “But he’s been gone so long, I imagine there is much to consider.” “He said he did not like this house,” Elain confided, wondering if it was wise to tell a servant a secret. In the city, household help was notorious  for gossiping , trading information like currency. Arina didn’t seem the type and still, Elain ought to have assumed she was, if only to protect her and her husband from scrutiny.

“I imagine not,” Arina interrupted Elains’ thoughts. “My mother was a housekeeper before me and I grew up in that house. The Duke was a cruel man, which I guess you must have realized and all his children were afraid of him. He brought them every winter for Christmas and departed each Spring. We were relieved when he passed the estate along to his son,” Arina added, her cheeks flushing. Elain wondered if Arina didn’t think him handsome. THe thought sparked the tiniest prick of jealousy in her chest.

“What was he like as a boy?” Elain couldn’t help but ask. Arina smiled.

“A menace. That’s what my mother used to say, anyway. You’ll forgive me for being so–”

“No need to apologize,” Elain assured her as they walked the dusty streets of the village market. Elain paused to examine a lovely bushel of red apples. “You can speak freely.”

Arina clearly did not believe that, if her narrowed green eyes were any indication. Still, Arina plucked a few coins from the pouch on her wrist so Elain could purchase what she liked. “He was wild. His mothers favorite. His father loathed him, of course—”

“Because he was her favorite?” Elain questioned. Arina’s brows knitted together. 

“They informed you so poorly. How did you meet Lord Vanserra?”

“It was arranged for me,” Elain admitted, placing five pretty apples in her basket. She was resolved to make Lucien a pie and draw him from his work, if only for a moment. “We did not meet before our wedding.”

A pretty lie but Arina did not need to know everything. Arina nodded, sighing softly. “There have always been rumors, though I think if the Duke could prove it, he would have banished his wife long ago. Lucien does not look like his father, don’t you think?”

“That is a blessing,” Elain was quick to retort. Arina nodded her agreement.

“Yes, everyone thinks so, just as they believe he is likely not Beron’s son at all. A bastard,” she added, as if Elain was too simple to understand.

“But his father claimed him,” Elain protested, strangely outraged on the exhausted-looking Lady Vanserra’s behalf. 

“Yes. To do otherwise was to admit his wife cuckolded him. I don’t think the Duke could bear the shame. He has always been particularly cruel to his youngest son, though, and this estate is proof of that. Lucien has made it prosperous once again, but when he inherited it, the village was impoverished and there was risk of true rebellion.”

“They seem to like him well enough,” Elain murmured, wondering if it was safe to be there. Arina nodded.

“Well…you’ve seen him. Lord Vanserra is kind. He has not raised rents like many others do and allows the farmers to sell outside of just this village. Taxes are also reasonable. In exchange, we get a much fairer price on meat and dairy. Everyone is very excited he’s brought home a wife as well. It means he’ll be around more often.”

Elain nodded, drinking in the cute little houses with their pointed red roofs and the cheerful little planter boxes now empty with impending winter. She pulled her silvery blue cloak a little tighter around her neck.

“Did you ah…” Arina trailed off, her cheeks pink again. “Did you happen to see Eris Vanserra before you left?”

“For a brief moment,” Elain admitted, studying the woman carefully now. “You know him, too?”

“Barely,” Arina insisted quickly, despite the blush of her cheeks. “He was older than me when I was growing up. He ah…how has he settled into marriage, then?”

Elain frowned. “Eris isn’t married.” Arina’s hands twisted nervously in front of her stomach. “No?”

“He was engaged and it ended. I’m told he was not kind about it,” Elain added, thinking perhaps she had been wrong as to which Vanserra Arina found to be handsome. Elain could not imagine it. To be fair, she had not studied the eldest of the Vanserras, given her focus was on the youngest. Perhaps Arina had an ill-placed crush that had never quite abated. 

“Oh.” Arina said nothing more regarding Eris and Elain was not stupid enough to push. Chatter shifted towards other families and matters. Arina informed Elain that Lord Tamlin was rumored to be looking for a wife and wondered rather openly how he had managed to avoid Elain. She imagined, though she didn’t say it, that Tamlin lacked the money of the Vanserras.

Lucien was proving to be decent enough. On her third night, she heard his boots echoing down the hall late into the night. The handle to her door turned and Lucien stepped inside, shrouded in darkness. He was still dressed in one of his fine coats though his hair was unbound around his face. She did not move and after a moment, Lucien stepped out as if he’d thought better of the entire thing. 

In the morning, Elain anticipated another breakfast alone. She was surprised to find Lucien waiting at the rounded table, the newspaper propped up on the mahogany surface. A plate of eggs and meat was half touched and a ceramic mug of coffee curled steam towards the unlit chandelier overheard. He looked over the top of his paper when she stepped in.

“Good morning,” he offered, gesturing for her to come sit beside him. Elain did, nearly tripping over her lilac dress as she did so. “Did you sleep well?”

“I–yes?” she asked, looking behind her at the open windows. Was she still dreaming? “Did you?”

“Leave us,” Lucien suddenly ordered the room, his voice clear and punctuated with cold authority. The servants immediately obliged, closing the wooden double doors behind them. Elain took a breath, wondering if this was the moment the other shoe dropped. Perhaps now that she was firmly entrenched in his life, Lucien felt comfortable treating her however he liked.

He set his paper to the side, pushing the food away from them so he could lean on the table. There were no fine clothes today. Lucien wore a white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a pair of well-fitted brown trousers.

“I sleep terribly,” he told her, eyes searching her face. “I have been neglecting you and by the time I realized you were living in my house, unfucked, you were fast asleep.”

“Oh,” she breathed, truly unsure where he was going with his little speech. Lucien studied her for a moment.

“I took myself in my hand instead and all the while, all I could think of was you,” he continued, unaware of how each new word was filling her with heat. “I decided I would have you for breakfast.”

“I’m sorry?” she replied, certain she must have heard him wrong. Lucien’s mouth curled upwards with amusement.

“Come here, Elain. Come sit on the table for me.”

“You’re mad,” she whispered, glancing towards the windows. “Anyone might see us.” “It is hardly a secret what happens between husbands and wives,” Lucien replied with a lazy smile, pushing his chair backwards across the swirling blue and green rug. “Please, wife. Don’t make me beg you.” “You wouldn’t beg,” Elain retorted just a shade too hotly. Lucien shook his head.

“Oh, but I would.”

Elain took a large gulp of air. “Then do it, Lord Vanserra. Get on your knees and beg.”She had the sense he’d say no. That it was a game she had taken too far and now he’d simply have his way. Lucien stood, the muscles in his forearms flexing, and Elain braced herself to be hauled up onto the table anyway, to be spread out for his amusement. Their eyes locked—Elain in her chair practically clutching the wooden arms and Lucien standing above her without an ounce of humor in his expression—before he sank to one knee, and then the other. Elain knew he heard the soft gasp of air expelled from her lungs.

“Wife,” he murmured, sliding the hem of her dress up her shins. “Please let me eat you for breakfast.”

Elain turned in her chair, raising her leg until her slippered foot was pressed against his throat. He was enjoying himself far too much. “You’ve been ignoring me,” she complained softly. 

“Get on the table, wife,” Lucien said for the second time. Elain dropped her foot and Lucien, realizing what she was about to do, shook his head.

“I’ll catch you,” he warned just as she flew from her chair. Elain didn’t know what prompted her to do it. The thought of him racing her down the halls, of tackling her and having his way was so disturbingly arousing that Elain scrambled backwards, shoving the chair between them as she ran for the door. She didn’t make it. Lucien was faster, wrapping his arms around her torso and lifting her feet off the floor. His mouth was immediately on her neck, licking from her collarbone to her ear as he walked her deftly back to the dining table. Lucien dropped her on top of it, one arm pressed against her chest.

“I begged, just like you asked,” he complained, his eyes glittering with want. “And still you run from me.”

“Next time I’ll be quicker,” she whispered. Lucien grinned, tugging at the neck of his shirt before pushing apart her knees.

“Next time you should do it on the lawn,” he replied, sinking back into his chair. He pulled her to the edge of the table and for a moment, Lucien truly did look as if he were about to eat breakfast. Fascination crept through her stomach as Lucien wrapped his arms around her legs and dipped his head. He hadn’t bothered to remove her underthings—Lucien just licked straight through the fabric, apparently determined to tease her.

“Am I being punished?” she asked, writhing when he didn’t her underwear off her body. She wanted more, was hot and needy, had all but forgotten anyone might wandered by the side of the house and find the Lord of the estate taking his time with his spread out wife. 

“Why don’t you come to see me at night?” he asked, his breath hot against her skin. Elain moaned.

“Because I hate you, remember?” “You hate my cock?” he questioned, licking another stripe over the cloth that covered her. “I don’t think that's true.”

“Is your cock independent of you?” she gasped, reaching for his hair. Lucien groaned softly when she yanked at the strands of his hair, pulling it from the leather strap he’d bound it with. 

“Yes,” he murmured, hooking his finger through the band of her panties. “It has its own thoughts and opinions on things…you may insult me, but my cock is very fond of you and if you do not reciprocate its feelings, it will be very put out.”

He dipped a finger into her body, crooking it until he found the exact spot he was looking for. Elains back arched involuntarily and Lucien chuckled with satisfaction. “Say you like my penis, Elain.”

“I like it,” she panted. 

“And they say romance is dead,” he murmured, kissing her cunt sweetly. She shoved his face closer.

“Stop talking,” she whispered, squeezing tight around his finger. Lucien obliged, utterly compliant whenever it came to pleasure. Suddenly, it didn’t matter who might see them or if it was wrong to desecrate the breakfast table as they were. It took a breathless minute to realize she was having fun. It was fun to be pinned beneath his mouth, his tongue taking its time swirling lazy circles over her clit. He was treating her like the finest meal and something about it made Elain happy.

Perhaps it was the attention he was suddenly paying her. He was busy, likely had other things he needed to do and yet there he was, carving vast pockets of time from his day to see her. He could have simply demanded she make herself available to him later that evening. She’d seen her father do that far too often when she was a child. Her mother would pale for a moment while she and her sisters immediately scattered to the wind, desperate not to get caught in her mothers resulting storm. 

She always knew when Lucien’s control began to fray. His once patient, slow mouth became faster, more frantic, more concentrated on the nub of flesh apexed at her thighs. It was as if he were suddenly overwhelming hungry and could no longer control how he went at her. She liked his best this way, though she never would have admitted it. Elain moaned in encouragement, her orgasm cresting in bright white sparks just behind her eyelids. Lucien’s eyes snapped open, meeting her gaze and with a quick hook of his finger, Elain came with an embarrassing scream she was certain the whole house must have heard.

Lucien scrambled upwards, flipping her to her stomach as he fumbled with his pants, 

“You can’t truly mean to…” her words died when he all but slammed himself into her body, using his booted foot to spread her legs as he bent her over the breakfast table.

“I mean to have you everywhere,” Lucien grunted, his hips snapping against her body. The union of their sticky flesh echoed around the room, shaking the silverware beneath them. “On the table, on the floor, against the wall,” he continued, fingers digging in her hips as he drove into her. “This house shall be haunted with the memories of it.”

Elain pressed her forehead against the cool table, her body still convulsing from his mouth. Lucien groaned loudly, his fingers likely leaving dimpling bruises against her skin. “I need you at night,” he continued when Elain began to move with him, angling herself so his cock continued to slide over the sensitive place inside her body. Lucien was always demanding she use him and she’d become far too accustomed to coming multiple times. 

“You know where I sleep,” Elain replied, so close it was almost painful. “Wake me up if you must.” “I fucking will,” he whispered. They came within a second of the other, the squeeze of her body likely setting off his own. She liked when Lucien came. It was erratic and messy, so at odds with how controlled he seemed to be. It was as if he became a slave to his baser urges, driven purely by need and instinct.

Lucien pulled himself from her body, yanking her with him into the chair.

“What are your plans for the day?” he asked, his heart hammering against his skin. He was flushed, messy and undone. Handsome, she decided. Utterly, and impossibly handsome.

“I was going to bake a pie.”

That seemed to amuse him. “My wife can bake, can she? How charming.”

“No need to tease, Lucien,” she replied, some of her good will slipping into uncertainty. Lucien kissed her cheek.

“I am not teasing you. Not this time,” he assured her. “Bring me a slice when you finish?” “I would hate to bother you,” she hedged, catching the flash of disappointment in his features.

“You are allowed,” he offered. The post-glow of sex was wearing off, reminding them they were not friends. They were merely strangers with a bargain between them and would, at some point, be merely two people sharing a last name. It would be foolish to get too attached to him. Elain willed herself to ice as she nodded.

“I was also going to invite your brother down.” 

Lucien went still beneath her. “Eris?”

“Yes, Eris. And your mother…my sisters, too? If you don’t mind hosting–”

“What do you need of Eris?” Lucien gingerly set her back to her feet, his distrust plain. Elain didn’t want to admit she was inviting him to see if he, too, had a little crush on her housekeeper. She was certain Lucien would not find it half as charming as Elain did. 

“Am I not allowed to get to know your family better?” Elain asked, sitting in her chair from before. Lucien hesitated, his jealousy both obvious and absurd. She was married to him, was dripping his come down her leg, and he was stewing in the possibility that perhaps she meant to sample his brother, too.

It was offensive and it irked her. “It’s your house,” he finally dismissed. “Do as you like.”

“I have your permission?” she questioned. Lucien frowned.

“One day you will sit me down and tell me the truly ugly details of your fathers marriage. Until that day, however, please hear me when I assure you that I do not care who you invite to our home…so long as it is not my father.”

“So…don’t ask your mother?” Elain questioned, biting her bottom lip. Lucien exhaled, setting his fork back to the table.

“Their marriage is complicated and I don’t want him here…I don’t want him around you.”

That stung. “You truly think I am so depraved I would–”

“Not you,” Lucien interrupted, his expression dark, ugly. “Him. He cannot be around you.”

Elain swallowed. “Oh.”

“I will write to Eris and see if he cannot bring mother himself. Father likes to lose himself in his little affairs. Perhaps it will escape his notice. As for your sisters…perhaps a party to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what, exactly?”

Lucien’s expression shifted from anger to curiosity. “Your father informs you of matters quite poorly, doesn’t it?”

Elain’s stomach dropped. “I am already married.”

“Yes, fortunately for you. It seems Lord Tamlin has made an offer for your youngest sister—” “Feyre?” Elain exclaimed with a laugh. “You jest.”

Lucien chuckled, sipping his lukewarm coffee while Elain pulled a platter of fruit towards herself. 

“I assure you I don’t. I wouldn’t wish the Baron on anyone, not even your feisty sister. We could host an engagement party of sorts.” “She will never marry him,” Elain said with supreme satisfaction. “I know her. She will run away before she ever walks down that church aisle.” Lucien shrugged. “Invite them anyway. Invite all of society. Let them see what a lovely match we make.”

Elain looked at him and Lucien shrugged. “Doting husband, remember?”

Of course. Elain was no longer hungry as she stood. “I should clean myself up,” she told him, watching his eyes drift down her body. “I will see you later.”

“You will,” Lucien agreed. 

Elain didn’t dare to look back.

**

Lucien had hoped marriage would be simple. He could seek out his wife when he wanted her and ignore her when he didn’t. He made it all of three days before his self-control shredded and he fucked her on the breakfast table like an animal. He regretted none of it, other than his original avoidance. Elain was under his skin like a scratch he couldn’t quite itch. How long, he mused, until the urge to have her passed and he could get back to his life?

Never, at this rate. Far from slaking his lust, each new sexual encounter only made him want more. It was a new and not entirely comfortable feeling. He very rarely wanted the same woman more than once and to learn it was his wife currently driving him towards madness did not sit well with him.

Elain was utterly unaware, bouncing around the house without a care in the world. For two weeks she charmed his staff, planning the ball she intended to host in another two weeks. Time was moving impossibly fast even as it felt no time had passed at all. Elain made herself at home as if she’d always lived there, worming her way into his life as if she’d always been a part of it. Lucien could scarcely remember how he’d functioned without her which worried him.

The Forest House was peppered with the horrific ghosts of his childhood. He’d begun exploring the once familiar places, if only to see himself as a boy. He took Elain with him, showing her the path cut through the forest that would lead to the tall, iron gate at the very back of the property or walked her through the garden explaining his mothers careful care while Elain took literal notes on a clipboard.

In the village, men tripped all over themselves to speak to the Lord's wife and Elain indulged it all with a sweet smile. Women were kind, bringing her their problems which Elain immediately turned around and dumped in his lap with a scowl, as if he ought to somehow be able to read each villager's mind. He’d caught her out in the field one particularly chilly day with a gaggle of children, teaching them to braid little flower crowns while they giggled and shrieked. He did not know what to do with her or the knowledge that she charmed everyone else so easily…and had begun to charm him, as well. 

For a well-bred Lady, Elain had no qualms about getting in the dirt. The steward complained she was often up too early digging weeds out of the garden with her bare hands and more than once, Elain had presented him with a beautifully latticed pie made entirely on her own. He found himself seeking her out more often than he wanted to, curious as to what she did and how she spent her time when he was not around. He wasn’t just the sex anymore, though he often found clever little ways to convince her to lift her skirts. 

It was what dragged Lucien from his office that particular night. HIs brother and mother were set to arrive in the morning, which meant he’d have to stop fucking his wife at the breakfast table. The notion disappointed him. He wondered if he might convince her to move into his bedroom, at least until they left, so he could put them in the east wing where Lucien and Elain would not be overheard.

He found her lounging in her bed, dressed in a pretty pink night dress. Lucien’s head emptied of all thoughts at the sight of her clingy little dress just barely hugging the curve of her ass.  “Did you bring the mask this time?” Elain asked, glancing towards the leather straps still hanging casually from her bedposts. He’d let her tie him up again the night before.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. What was wrong with him? “I saw Arina today.”

“I see her everyday,” Elain replied, setting the book she was reading on the night table beside her bed. 

“Yes, you two are quite the pair, aren’t you?”

“If you’ve come to say we cannot be friends, I will–” “Stab me, yes,” he interrupted impatiently, catching the outrage in her expression. “Be honest with me. Have you asked to invite Eris because you want him and Arina to see each other?”

Elain’s cheeks immediately flushed.

“Of course not.”

“Liar,” he replied, crossing the room to sit on her bed. His fingers twitched with the want to touch her. “And here I was thinking you would be meddling in your sister's life.”

“Feyre can handle herself,” Elain insisted. “You’ll see. There will be no wedding to Lord Tamlin of all people. He’s so…so…”

“Bland,” Lucien agreed. Elain looked at him for a moment, eyes narrowing.

“You assaulted him, did you not?”

Lucien shrugged. “He had something to say about my mother.”

Elain scooted closer. “He said something about your mother?” she questioned. Lucien scowled. Tamlin had implied his mother would get hit less if she spoke more and Lucien, who’d seen the fresh bruises on her face, had lost his temper in a regretful sort of way. It only confirmed the worst rumors about him and his brothers—they were no better than their father.

“Feyre will hate him if he doesn’t respect women,” Elain continued when it was clear Lucien would not be expanding on why he’d spent an evening in the stockyards. 

“Feyre will be given no choice in the matter. Lord Tamlin is well aware of her reputation and claims not to care. She should be grateful–” “Grateful?” Elain hissed, withdrawing from him as though he’d struck her. Lucien ran a hand through his hair, immediately irritated.

“Yes, Elain. Whether you like it or not, these things matter—” “Should I be disappointed, then?” she asked him, so close to the edge of her bed she seemed in danger of falling off. Lucien hoped she did, if only to inject a little comedy to the moment. Why couldn’t she ever assume good intentions? She almost imagined the least charitable interpretation of his words. 

“You are disappointed, Elain. You remind me every single day,” he replied plaintively. “Come sit in my lap.”

“No! Feyre can do better than Lord Tamlin,” she added, unaware that when she crossed her arms over her chest, it made her breasts practically pop out of her night dress. Lucien was openly staring.

“I never said she couldn’t. I only meant she’s unlikely to get a better offer—” “Why does she need one?” Elain demanded. “I got married, did I not? Feyre and Nesta should be allowed to complete the season.”

Lucien shrugged, ignoring the way disappointment slid through his veins. She’d married him because she’d been made to, because she had no choice, and perhaps because she believed it would spare her sisters a similar fate. He wished, strangely, she’d also married him because he was tolerable to her. 

“Perhaps your father ran the costs in his mind and decided it was more economical to marry you all off.” Elain’s anger seemed to melt right off her face, leaving genuine hurt in its wake. “That sounds like him.”

Lucien sighed. “Will you come here now?” 

Elain looked up, dark lashes fanned around her even darker eyes. Lucien gestured for her, letting her see slick amusement and nothing else. She hesitated and he swallowed how much he hated her distrust, his fingers beckoning her. Elain relented, crawling quickly over the mattress until he caught her and dragged her the rest of the way into his lap. 

“Are you happy now?” she asked, too rigid, too grumpy.

“With you?” he teased. “Never.” 

She squirmed, scowling darkly for all it mattered. He merely tightened his hold.

“Tell me the truth, now. Are you meddling in my brother's love life?”

“She seems to care for him,” Elain admitted. Lucien poked her in the ribs. “She is…”

“Don’t you dare say it,” Elain whispered, twisting to look up at him. “She is lovely.” “Beron would kill her,” Lucien finished. “Even if Eris wanted her, which I’m not certain he does, Beron would kill him, and Eris knows it. You should have come to me first. All you’ve done is heap hurt onto Arina’s shoulders. She knows her station, Eris knows his.”

Elain’s eyes were so round and innocent, so utterly sweet he wished wildly for a better world, if only to stop seeing how disappointed she often was. Lucien couldn’t help himself as he caressed her face. 

“I’ll help your sister,” he said despite his better judgment. “If your father needs money, I can send it.”

Elain exhaled a breath, relaxing against his body. Relief flooded his veins when she tucked her head beneath his chin. “That’s kind of you, Lucien.”

He would have done far more, he wanted to say. He was trying, he wanted to remind her. In his own strange, stupid way. He said nothing, unwilling to admit she was having an effect on him he didn’t entirely hate. He needed to get out of his own head. 

“You will stop meddling,” he told her sternly. Elain rolled her eyes, flicking him in the cheek to punctuate her annoyance. 

“Are you ordering me to?” she asked him, her eyes burning with sensuality.

“Be careful, wife,” he crooned, his body immediately taking notice of how she shifted in her lap so she was rubbing against his penis. He wasn’t hard yet, though his hand flew to her breast all the same, pinching her nipple through the thin fabric.

“Or what?” Elain demanded, teeth grazing the stubble on his neck.

“Or I’ll bend you over the dresser and spank you,” he all but growled. Far from fear, Elain offered a breathy little gasp and he wondered if she didn’t mean to run. He kept hoping she would, that he’d see her in the hall and she’d just take off so he could fuck her up against one of those ugly, expensive portraits of a long-dead ancestor.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Elain breathed, grinding herself against him. Lucien pushed her chestnut hair off her shoulders, nipping the skin beneath her ear. “Try me.”

“You’re a coward,” she goaded, the little minx. Lucien chuckled, so immensely pleased. Tightening his grip around her, Lucien dragged them both from the bed. Elain squirmed, playing her little game in which she pretended to resist him. He wondered what it said about him that he liked making her submit almost as much as he liked when she pressed her foot to his neck and demanded he beg to taste her. 

Lucien bent her over the white wood of her vanity, enjoying the sight of her breasts pressed against the surface and reflected back at him through the mirror. He pushed up her nightgown, tired of constantly fucking her in clothes. Writhing against his hold did nothing to stop him from revealing her bare body—it only served to make him harder.

“You asked for this,” he reminded her, palming her curved ass cheek. For only a moment Lucien hesitated, suddenly afraid of what it would mean to strike his wife. Elain turned, looking over her shoulder with a soft expression. 

“Do your worst,” she murmured, her eyes offering silent permission despite the unspoken rules of the game. “I’m not afraid of you.” His knees trembled when she said it. Lucien rubbed again, spreading her apart just enough to look at her, barred and quivering and willing.

He brought his hand down with a satisfying smack. Her whole body went tight for a moment, head dropping against her forearm. He couldn’t see her face, hidden beneath the loose curls of her long hair. “This is what you wanted,” he reminded her, admiring the print of his hand blooming on her cheek. “How many, Elain?”

“Ten,” she whispered, surprising him. “I’ve been so bad.” Lucien’s mouth dried, his eyes rolling backwards in his head. “You have,” he agreed, his other hand holding her waist. He landed another hit on the opposite cheek as his cock solidified in his pants, straining to be released. Elain whimpered, rising up on her tiptoes, legs spread wider. Lucien rubbed the little hurt with his hand, unable to resist sliding his hand along the long seam of her. His fingers brushed against the puckered hole of her ass, eliciting another gasp. He pressed his thumb ever so slightly, gauging her reaction. Would she let him use her this way? Or did Elain have a hard limit somewhere? 

This wasn’t the place to push her, only to introduce her to the concept. He continued down, groaning softly when he felt the gathering wetness. “You’re not supposed to enjoy being punished,” he crooned, slipping his finger inside her all the same. He was a masochist, unable to resist feeling her clench around him.

“I hate you,” she lied, so tight he could feel it burning against his cock. Lucien withdrew without preamble, spanking her yet again. He caught her face in the mirror when she looked up, her cheeks flushed, eyes glowing with pleasure. She was absurd, so obscenely beautiful he didn’t know what to do with her. Lucien would be lucky to get to five, let alone ten. 

“You want me,” he told her, leaning against her back so she could feel his erection. He gathered her hair in his fist, arching her back so he could lick the side of her neck. “You’re already soaked.” 

Their eyes met in the mirror, their thoughts reflected back at them. Elain thrust her breasts forward, gripping the edge of the vanity so he could see the way her pink nipples brushed against the wood.

“Fuck, Elain,” he breathed, shedding himself of his clothes as she spread her legs wider and manuvered her hair so he could have a truly unparalleled view of her. Wishing there was a mirror on the floor so he could watch from every angle, Lucien slicked the swollen head of his cock through her wetness, teasing her clit with his sensitive, soft skin. Elain moaned, eyes fluttering shut. 

It occurred to Lucien, as he pushed into his wife, that he might never tire of her. That there was no novelty to Elain, nothing inherently different that would eventually pass. Perhaps this was more than just lust. That, more than anything, terrified him more than he was willing to admit. Wanting her and knowing it would slow, that eventually he’d get bored and move on, made Lucien feel safe. Secure. She couldn’t hurt him if this was only temporary. He couldn’t lose her to another man, to time, to a cruel and capricious world that might one day decide to take her for simply no reason at all.

Elain moaned, drawing him back to the present. Lucien did what he did best and swallowed his concerns in favor of enjoying himself. There was nothing finer that being buried in her body, of feeling the proof of her arousal dripping against his cock. He was certain there were dozens of men who would have killed to so casually reach for her hip, to pull her roughly against him so he could drive deeper, could feel every glorious inch of her body. He was mesmerized by the sight of her, at her bouncing breasts and her flushed cheeks, her parted lips. 

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Take what you need.” “I need you to touch me,” she panted, still on her tiptoes. Lucien reached for one of her legs, holding it in the air while sliding the other around to rub against her clit. Elain whimpered, clenching so tight he could barely breathe. 

“Come for me,” Lucien demanded, dragging toward the edge despite his best intentions. She’d stolen his stamina like she’d taken everything else. “Elain, sweetheart—”

She screamed, nails scraping against the wood. He exploded beneath the sight of her orgasm, pumping hard release into her body. He was grunting, pulling her too rough against him and still Elain took it without complaint the way he’d once thought she might. 

This was the part he hated. Pulling himself out of her body, the redressing and slipping back into the awkward, unsure pair too quick to fight. He’d leave her here when what he really wanted was to pack her things up and move her into his bedroom. It was not done, unheard of. Men thought it made them weak, stripped them of their most basic rights but Lucien wanted to wake up with her nestled against him like they’d been in the inn. She’d been so sweet, so warm, her cheek pressed against his bicep, her back curved against his chest.

He didn’t dare ask. Lucien merely pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep well.”

“You as well,” she agreed, holding her nightdress against her body. Lucien willed himself to walk away.

Willed himself not to think of her at all.

**

Eris Vanserra arrived the next morning with his mother and no one else. As to what Lucien had said to entice him into coming, Elain did not know. The elder Vanserra was nothing like his brother and in retrospect, Elain wondered how she had never noticed. Lucien, who was tall and muscular, greeted his leaner, shorter brother. Not that Eris didn’t dwarf both the fragile-looking Lady Vanserra or Elain, but comparatively, Lucien was just large.

When had she begun appreciating her husband, she wondered?

“Little sister,” Eris crooned, every inch the gentleman. Here was the man who Nesta had rejected, who had the reputation of being just like his father. Lucien, too, had that reputation though over the course of a week, Elain was beginning to suspect the rumors were not as true as she’d once believed. “I hear you’re hosting a party next weekend.”

Elain looked at Lucien, who rolled his eyes behind his brothers back.

“Yes,” she agreed. 

“She’s trying to find you a wife, brother,” Lucien teased, clapping Eris’s shoulder hard. 

“And how is domesticity treating you?” Eris asked, his amber eyes firmly on Lucien as they walked from the foyer to the drawing room. 

“Wedded bliss, as they say,” Lucien replied easily. Elain didn’t know why those words made her heart pound, why her cheeks suddenly flushed with warmth. Beside Lucien, his mother, who clutched his arm for dear life, beamed with happiness. Eris seemed less convinced.

“Better you than me, I suppose,” he argued, looking around the house with a guarded expression. Elain thought of what Arina had said of their childhood. Lucien had been particularly cagey around the details and Elain knew better than to press but judging by the way Eris walked and his paler than usual expression, she didn’t think this place held any fond memories for him.

Elain meant to warn Arina that Eris was coming. She stood by the door, intending to slip out when Lady Vanserra caught her by the hand.

“Sit with me,” she asked, beaming with such radiant happiness that Elain could hardly say no. She’d just dropped to the little floral couch when Arina came in, more familiar than she would have dared had she known they had guests. Eris immediately jumped to his feet as the room fell silent.

“Lady Vanserra,” Arina said with surprise, eyes darting from Eris to his mother. “Lord ah—” “Eris,” he said quickly, an echo of his brother. Elain looked to Lucien who, to his credit, was staring pointedly out the window behind him. Elain also stood.

“Excuse me, for just a moment,” Elain offered the room. She chanced one last glance at Eris, who genuinely looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Elain strode from the room, wondering if Lucien hadn’t been right when he told her not to meddle. Arina’s tanned face was just as pale, her green eyes just as stricken. Elain followed her friend down the corridor, pulling her to the library where Arina pressed her back against the wall.

“I haven’t seen him in so long,” she gasped, sliding to the floor, knees pulled to her chest.

“I’ll send him away,” Elain said immediately, grabbing Arina’s clammy hands. “I’m so sorry, I thought—” “No!” Arina shrieked softly, shaking her head. “No. Don’t…don’t send him away. I’m only surprised, that’s all. I didn’t think he’d truly come.” Arina blinked away the glassy look from her eyes. “Don’t send him away,” she repeated. “I want to see him…I just…I don’t want him to see me.”

“Why not?” Elain demanded. Arina was beautiful, the kind of woman who turned heads everywhere she went. She would have ruined every upstanding man in Velaris, would have brought that city to its knees if she’d ever had the notion. Elain had sent the butcher's son away on not one, but three separate occasions when he’d come inquiring after Arina. Why shouldn’t Eris see her? 

“He is…” she trailed off helplessly. “If you see less of me, that is why.”

“I saw how he looked at you,” Elain insisted. “Like he’d seen a ghost.”

“I’m sure he thought so,” Arina agreed. “He made me swear I would leave this place. I promised, I…”

Arina bit her bottom lip, tugging at the skin with her teeth. “I didn’t know where else to go. I had no money and a poor education, I just…he left and I stayed.”

Elain nodded. 

“Lord Vanserra—Lucien…he made me housekeeper when my mother passed and it’s been a good job. Better, even, since you came and it’s not just boring men traipsing about. I don’t regret it. Eris was just…” Arina’s eyes were dreamy for a moment. “He was, perhaps, better left to my imagination.” Arina stood, smoothing out the blue of her dress. “I shall be fine. Don’t worry about me. Focus on that husband of yours.” “You’ll tell me if anything changes?”

“Of course.”

Elain didn’t believe Arina, though she accepted her friend's promise all the same. Trudging back to the drawing room, she caught the fleeting look of hope that crossed Eris’s face. He was so painfully obvious, so openly apparent.

“No tea?” Lucien asked, one eyebrow raised.

“You know where the kitchen is,” Elain shot back, a plan forming in her mind. Lucien had demanded she not meddle, but if the only thing separating Eris and Arina was class, surely that could be rectified. How badly did Eris truly want to become Duke? 

“Is everything alright?” Lady Vanserra questioned. Eris smoothed his expression into one of supreme boredom. He wasn’t fooling her.

“Perfectly alright,” Elain agreed. “The butcher's son is courting my housekeeper, that’s all. If he keeps this up, we’ll have another wedding on our hands before Christmas.” Lucien scowled from behind his brother's chair, eyes laser focused on Elain. 

What are you doing?! His body language demanded. Elain didn’t care, too busy studying the elder son. His face was moody and dark, fingers gripping the arm of his chair so tightly she could see the whites of his knuckles. 

Lady Vanserra, unaware of Elain’s manipulations, clapped her hands together with delight. “Oh, I remember that boy. You three used to play together. Lucien, Arina, and…what was his name?’ “John,” Eris all but ground out. “He was rather simple, as I remember.”

Elain sat beside their mother, hands in her lap. “Well, boys grow into rather dashing, intelligent men I think. John is wonderful. We are so fond of him.” “Perhaps too fond,” Lucien agreed with amusement. “I didn’t know you spoke so often to him.” “My husband is quite busy,” Elain explained. “Arina and I find all sorts of ways to amuse ourselves.”

Lucien snorted his agreement, turning his gaze back to the window. 

“It’s lovely to see the two of you getting along so well,” Lady Vanserra murmured, taking Elain’s hand in hers. “It makes me happy to see you both radiant and in love.”

Elain swallowed the panic that rose in her chest. Lucien didn’t react at all, eyes moody just like his brother. 

“It is easy,” Elain replied, not daring to look at him as she assured his mother, “To love your son.”

“He has always been a good boy,” she agreed. “A good man, too.”

“Come, mother. Your sentimentality embarasses him,” Eris interjected with more than a little amusement. “Give us a tour of the house brother. I haven’t seen it in ages.”

Elain intended to let them go together as a family, to prepare for her own sister's arrival in a few days and the party that she was wholly unprepared for. As Lucien went to the door, he caught her around the waist. She expected him to offer her snark, to say something hurtful for claiming to love him.

He threaded his fingers through her hair, drawing her close for an unexpected kiss. “Oh,” Elain whispered, looking him in the eyes, nose brushing his own. 

“Behave yourself,” he murmured, kissing her again, softer than before. It was affectionate, touching her in a place she hadn’t known existed. Elain swallowed hard, nodding while wishing he’d keep his arm around her body. He didn’t, releasing her without a hint of disappointment on his end. 

Elain watched him go with a shake of her head, wondering what was wrong with her. It was only Lucien. He touched her constantly without asking, was always pulling her into his lap or pressing his mouth against her own. The air was easier to breathe once Lucien vacated it and Elain busied herself with the morning's preparations. Her sisters were coming early, chaperoned by Lucien who was the only man their father apparently trusted their care to. He had written, stating he was far too busy to do more than drop them off. 

She supposed business had gotten better with Beron Vanserra’s patronage. If it kept Beron out of her home and let Feyre and Nesta run wild in the countryside, Elain hardly cared. The Lady Vanserra—or Amera, as she insisted Elain call her—also seemed to bloom far from her husband's dark cloud. She was all smiles, tucked between her sons as they made their barbed jokes and relived more pleasant days in the house. Elain wondered if she couldn’t keep Lady Vanserra forever. Surely Beron, who Lucien swore was always mired in one affair or another, would be grateful not to have to support her?

It was that thought that pulled Elain from her bed that night. She slipped down the halls, making her way in near darkness with nothing but a candle until she found his room. Lucien’s was the largest in the house, a series of interconnected chambers where he could work and lounge and bathe without having to be bothered. He was in bed, propped up on a wall of pillows without a shirt on. The white sheet was tangled about his waist, one bare leg pulled closer to his chest, offering Elain a mind-emptying view of his muscular thighs. Lucien looked over at her when she appeared in the doorway, setting the book he was reading in his lap.

“Is it my birthday?” he joked, immediately gesturing for her to come to him. Insatiable, was what he was and yet Elain could not help herself. She still remembered waking in the inn, tucked safe against his body. Some part of her still wanted that, though she would never have admitted it. Not when Lucien retreated back to his own bed after coming to hers for sex, not bothering to even look back at her. Elain could not make herself vulnerable in that way. She hesitated, even though she wanted to go to him. She always did, every time he beckoned her. It was a game she played with herself, telling him no. He could not have everything while he gave her so little. He could not have her unguarded affection.

Lucien sighed, running a hand through his lovely hair. “Do not make me beg,” he said, his expression plaintive. “I have been imagining you in this bed since we arrived. Indulge me.”

“When is your birthday?” Elain couldn’t help but ask, taking the tiniest step onto the braided rug his bed sat atop of.

“October thirtieth,” he answered, gesturing again for her to get into his bed. He pulled back the sheet, revealing himself to be utterly naked and this time, Elain could not resist despite her exhaustion. 

“I don’t want to have sex tonight,” she complained, letting him snatch her the moment she reached the side of the bed. Lucien pulled her into the bed and yank the blanket up over her body until merely her face remained open to the dim air. 

“You came all this way to decline my advances?” Lucien asked, brushing hair from her face. Elain swallowed hard, hating the way her heart fluttered at this new softness. When she’d once imagined being married, she had pictured moments like these. Lucien was so good at making her feel cared for. Cherished, even. Sometimes she caught him looking at her with a fondness that made her chest tight. Some part of her wanted it to be real and not the product of a too-romantic imagination.

“I came all this way to ask you if your mother could live with us permanently,” Elain replied, dragging her fingertips over the sparse hair on his chest. Lucien sighed, pressing a kiss to her scalp.

“Ah. Father would never allow it.”

Elain twisted to look at him, desperately trying to ignore how handsome he was in the firelight. “Why not? You say he is having affairs. Would it not be easier with his wife out in the countryside?”

“And who will organize his dinners? Warm his bed when his mistress is not available?” Lucien countered. “She is his most prized possession, Elain.” “She is a woman–” “She was the daughter of the most powerful Duke before he died. Father coveted her, he was obsessed with her…he still is. It would draw far too much attention to the pair of us to beg for mother to live here. When you are pregnant and it’s coming close, I intend permission for her to come and tend to you and that will keep her away for part of the year but it’s dangerous to ask for anymore.” “I do not understand,” Elain complained, settling back against him. Lucien threaded his fingers through her hair, combing softly.

“No, I imagine not,” Lucien murmured, pressing the curls to his nose. “An invitation for mother is an invitation to both of my parents. Beron will not come for the birth of a grandchild but he might just to insert himself somewhere he does not belong…to remind us both that we are still under his care and control. We are far better outside of his awareness and if I am being completely honest, I do not want him anywhere near my wife.”

Elain shivered. “She seems so happy here.”

Lucien nodded, kissing her forehead again. “You are kind to think of her. She had nothing but questions about you when I took her through the house.”

“I miss my own mother,” Elain admitted, unsure if it was wise to do so. Lucien shifted, both arms wrapped around her body. She felt heavy, head nuzzled against his arm so she could better inhale the scent of him. 

“How old were you when she died?” he asked.

“Eleven,” she whispered, dragging her lips over his skin as she said it. She didn’t want to have sex…she merely wanted to touch him without the expectation of anything else. Lucien didn’t make a sound as she kissed the muscles against his ribs, her hand flat against his stomach.

“What happened?” “Influenza,” Elain replied. “It was slow and for a while we thought she might get better.” His hand rubbed against her spine. “I’m sorry.”

Tracing the coarse line of hair from his belly button downward, Elain let herself reflect on that time. “Nesta begged father to take her to the hospital or the countryside…she would get better only to get worse, over and over. It was terrible and…” And he’d said no. He’d ignored them, making his daughters work in shifts to keep her hydrated and fed and cool. Elain had listened to Nesta rage and scream, twelve years old and already far angrier than any child should ever be. Feyre had begun sneaking out of the house then, unable to stand the tension or the way death clung to everything. Elain had been left to smooth it all out, to help in the kitchen, the garden, anywhere her mother would have overseen.

She supposed her father decided it would be easier without the wife who hated him. Nesta was certain he had purposefully let her die and Feyre had been too traumatized to ever consider his motives at all. Elain wondered if her father hadn’t begun setting her up for her own marriage years before. She had no expectation Lucien would ever take care of her, even as she clung to him, desperate that he might. 

“I should go,” she said, pushing away from him. Lucien tightened his hold again. 

“Stay,” he whispered. “I promise no sex, just…”

Their eyes met and she saw her own same pulsating fear radiating through his own eyes. Her chest constricted, heart pounding terribly in her chest. Say no! Her mind screamed it at her, reminding her she would read too much into this evening, would project her own slow blooming hopes onto his actions only to be disappointed. He did not want her, had been perfectly clear the day of their marriage.

People could change, she told herself stupidly. “Okay,” she agreed, watching his relief. “Just for tonight.”

Lucien nodded.

“Just for tonight.”

#elucien #elucien fic #elucien fan fic #elucien fanfiction #gee i wonder what is going on with elain and lucien #theyre like huh i feel weird #and my face is hot #is it the flu??? #NO ITS LOVE YOU IDIOTS #god theyre so stupid i love them #elain x lucien #also welcome: feysand subplot #brought to you by: the lonely barricade drinking tequila in my comment section #and Rhysand High Lord of Night Court and a man who likes to cause problems on purpose #injecting a little drama into chapter 5 #as always #this is not historically accurate

[vaarulv]

tag drop.

#☾ young & unafraid. // verse 001. #☾ here it was they lit the flame. // verse 002. #☾ this lonely barricade. // verse 003. #☾ there is a light. // verse 004. #☾ history is repeating. // verse 005. #☾ a world reborn. // verse 006. #☾ a life about to start. // verse 007. #☾ coffee is the only magic i need. // verse 008. #tag drop.

[hunters-house]

Continued from @astrancva’s open starter

Elizabeth would find herself in the entryway to a bar, which appeared to be busy today.

The hostess, who’s nametag identified her as Mackenzie, noticed the woman standing before her.

Mackenzie smiled and pulled out a schedule on the hostess stand.

“Welcome to the Lonely Barricade Bar and Restaurant. Do you have a reservation?”

#astrancva #Furry (Mac Thorns) #That’s The Spirit (Lonely Barricade)

[urgonnaneedabiggership]

And All The Fears You Hold So Dear

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara (Spiderman: Across The Spiderverse) x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Language. Angst. Unplanned Pregnancy. Mild violence. Also there's like a smidge of nsfw talk there but thought I'd let you know beforehand just in case.

Word count: 4.3K

A/N: Part Three and Final Installment of something that started as a one-shot and somehow escalated into this¿¿

I just want to thank you for all your very kind comments and let you know that I got a couple requests that I'll be working on, so this might not be the last you see of me. Ily <3

also i cried so much writing this now you have to suffer like i did. xo

Right after the tears finally stopped coming, the emotional exhaustion translated into an intense weariness that made you collapse on the sofa. That hour spent out of consciousness was a blissful interlude in the pain that had your chest hurting and leaving you unable to breathe.  You’d once read somewhere that there was something called “phantom limb syndrome” in which people could feel pain in an amputated hand, arm, or leg. When you woke up, you looked out at the now dark sky and thought of giving Miguel a call to tell him about what an awful day you were having until the memories came back like a harrowing tsunami that had you tearing up when you wondered for how long you’d have to keep reminding yourself that he wasn’t there anymore. This time, however, you became angry. And oddly self-assured.

You didn’t need him. You’d given him a choice, and if a sad, pitiful, lonely life was what he wanted, then good riddance. His loss.

You could do this. Jessica’s pregnancy hadn’t stopped her after all. Sure, it would be challenging but there were mothers out there who took care of one or more children and balanced several jobs didn’t they? So what if you moonlighted as a vigilante whose life was on the line every day? What if you’d have to spend the rest of your life protecting him or her from the bunch of fairly dangerous enemies you’d made in the past months?

Or maybe you didn’t have to.

Your eyes wandered off to your suit which you’d mindlessly thrown on the floor the second you’d arrived home, scrutinizing the details and the care that you’d put into creating it. You wondered what it would look like inside a box, hidden in the back of the closet for years, or until your kid stumbled upon it and asked about mommy’s dutifully hidden past.

An obnoxious beeping sound coming from between the cushions snapped you out of your fantasy as you fished your watch. You hadn’t even realized you’d taken it with you and now it was issuing a warning concerning an anomaly with an amazing timing that had decided to pop into your dimension.

Placing a hand on your stomach, you looked out of the window and doubtfully pressed your lips together.

“Shit. Please, let it be a Vulture that’s literally a vulture, please,” you pleaded with whatever deity chose to listen to you as you picked up your suit and rushed to the bathroom, mindlessly throwing the test into the trash can before pulling the mask over your head.

Unfortunately, you didn’t arrive at the location to find a confused scavenging bird flapping around. You weren’t even sure of what you’d been sent to capture. At the scene, several police cars had formed a barricade outside of an empty warehouse and seemed to be lying in wait, aiming at the door with their guns. Good. That meant you could get in there and set things straight with the unwanted visitor before anybody got hurt.

You stealthily made your way from a nearby ledge to the roof, finding your way in through a broken skylight and landing on top of a pile of metallic crates solid enough to hold your weight but making your entrance noisier than you would’ve liked.

Whatever you were looking for, it was nowhere to be seen. The warehouse was in such darkness that, if it wasn’t for the night-vision lenses Miguel had fitted into your mask, you wouldn’t be able to see further than your own nose. They had come in pretty handy, and you couldn’t believe you’d been so opposed to getting them.

“(Y/N) it’s just one small modification, give me one reason not to.”

“Because you’ve already done too much!”

“Oh come on, it will take me what? Twenty minutes?”

“No, I don’t mean it like that. I mean you’ve done too much to my suit, Miguel. First, the emergency parachute, next the spine and nape reinforcements, then you literally said ‘You know what? How about we just redo the whole thing with fireproof fabric?’ and now another modification?”

“He added memory foam insoles too, said you wouldn’t notice, I’m with you on this one” Lyla chimed in.

You pressed your lips together to fight back a satisfied smile while Miguel glared daggers at the AI assistant, who refused to back down.

“She still remembers please and thank you, alright?”

“Lyla, will you please go check if there’s a faulty connection or a leaky pipe somewhere? Thank you.”

After throwing a sickly sweet smile his way, she vanished.

“Alright then,” Miguel continued arguing, “I’m sorry for offering to install state-of-the-art, potentially lifesaving enhancements to your suit. What was I thinking, not wanting my girlfriend to die?”

He lifted his hands in defeat and retreated to the other side of the room, minimizing the digital blueprints of the new glasses.

“And for the record,” He continued, “I didn’t do all the work for your new suit, you designed it, remember? I had no idea of what a ‘basque waistline’ was,”

When he finished talking, he was surprised to hear absolutely nothing coming from your side. Furrowing his eyebrows, he turned to see you still leaning against the metallic table on top of which your suit rested. You were staring at him with a surprised expression that only baffled him further when he noticed the bright blush spreading around your cheeks and down to your neck. Then it dawned on him.

“Oh shit, I’ve never called you that before, have I?”

“No, you haven’t,”

Of course, that small window of vulnerability was all he needed.

“Please let me put the lenses on your suit?”

What he didn’t know was that you can see both ways through a window. When he earnestly pleaded with you to let him install the stupid attachment, his true motives were as clear as if you’d heard them straight from his mouth.

Last time I wasn’t careful enough. I didn’t plan ahead. If something happens to you and I have the slightest notion that I didn’t do absolutely everything in my power to keep you safe…please. Do this for me, would you? For my own, selfish peace of mind?

And he’d been right. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw something dart from behind one container to the next one.

“I see you,” You announced, rolling your shoulders as your Spider-Sense began acting up, “Listen, you’re probably feeling confused right now and if you come out we could…”

You couldn’t even finish the sentence as something heavy and cold tackled you onto the ground. Instinctively, you rolled over just in time for something sharp the size of a harpoon to stab the ground next to your head strong enough to pierce the concrete. Without wasting one more second, you jumped on top of a container to take a better look at whatever the hell that was just to find that same spot completely empty. Whatever it was, it was fast. Wincing at the sharp pain in your shoulder, you reminded yourself you had to be more careful and avoid taking strong hits like that.

However, you couldn’t afford to be distracted right now. And, as if to affirm that thought as quickly as it came, your sense warned you of something coming at you from behind. Before it could take you by surprise again, you swiftly moved out of the way and shot webs twice to try and pin it down so you could at least take a good look at what you were up against.

“What in the…?” You gasped as you stared at what you’d captured. Before you, a 20-foot-long pale yellow scorpion furiously trashed about as it tried to free itself from your webs. Not even five seconds after you spotted it, the critter broke free of its restraints and disappeared behind another container. Well, reasoning and trying to bring him in peacefully wasn’t going to work with this one. For now, you knew that it was going to try and keep attacking you, so the best you could do for now was to keep an eye on him before he could plunge that hideous stinger through your forehead. Especially since the little shit was remarkably fast. What was that thing Miguel always told you to do?

“No, remember. You’ve got to think further, think two steps ahead,”

“You know, Miguel, repeating that a million times isn’t going to suddenly give me the ability to see ten seconds into the future,” you muttered, taking the hand he reached out to help you get up. With a wince, you placed a hand on your shoulder and rolled it until it popped.

“It’s not about seeing into the future, (Y/N), it’s about finding unprotected spots and patterns,”

“How come outside I’m love, gorgeous or mi chiquita preciosa de ojitos bonitos, but the minute we’re in here I’m back to being (Y/N),”

“First of all, that last one never happened, we agreed on it, I was in…a vulnerable…”

“You were drunk, you can say it, I won’t tell,”

He glared at you in a way you knew meant ‘won’t you?’. Hopefully, he’d never find out you’d told Peter every last detail of his drunken silliness as soon as you had the chance.

“Second of all, here you’re just like anybody else. You mean nothing to me and I mean nothing to you because that’s how the attackers are going to see you, as an obstacle to get out of the way. Now focus. I’m going to attack you again,”

While knowing beforehand he was going to come at you gave you some advantage, you managed to block the blow he launched at your head. Before he could try again, you noticed his next attempt at an attack was leaving his legs completely exposed. Then, you did what Jess had taught you to do whenever you faced somebody taller than you: go for the knees. You crouched and, with a classic foot sweep, managed to make him lose his balance just enough for you to hook your legs on either side of his and take him down.

You were so tired you couldn’t even gloat properly, instead settling for smiling to yourself and releasing a short, triumphant, ‘ha!’ with your last breath before crawling over to him and sitting next to his lying body.

“You know, if I’m supposed to think two movements ahead,” You say, a beckoning look in your eyes, “I think it’s safe to predict you’re going tell me that there’s nothing more you can teach me, and then carry me to your quarters to do absolutely unspeakable things to me,”

Honestly, it had been stupid of you to think he would give up that easily. Not even two seconds later, it was your back that was pressed against the floor as his large frame covered you, and his hand held your wrists on top of your head. Then he leaned in, painfully slowly, until he was close enough for you to feel the heat that radiated from his skin, a low chuckle left his throat.

“Chula, you don’t know half of all the things I can teach you. But this isn’t the place for most of them. Let’s get moving.”

Thankfully, you forced your brain to focus on the matter at hand before it could replay the entire memory.

Two steps ahead (Y/N), come on.

That thing always attacked with the stinger first. Then it would probably try to immobilize you with its pincers. Quickly tracing a plan inside your head, you started to roam the dark warehouse looking for the missing critter, your spider-sense as sharp as ever as you looked behind every crate and container only to find nothing. Maybe it had left the building without you noticing? Outside, the police still remained alert and in wait. There was no way it could have left without being seen.

Fine. If you couldn’t find him, then he could come and find you. Making your way to the center of the empty space, you remained perfectly still and waited for your sense to tell you where the beast was coming from. The wait was short-lived as you felt a sharp wave of shivers running down your right arm, your entire body shifting to face that side just in time to shoot enough web to completely wrap the entire stinger and leave enough web for you to jump and throw over a beam, leaving the scorpion hanging upside down while aggressively pinching the air around him with its pincers. Unwilling to take any risks, you covered them as well. You had to stand there and catch your breath for a few seconds before looking over to your watch to report you’d successfully captured the anomaly. Only then you had the chance to see that you had several missing calls from Peter.

“(Y/N)?” Peter asked when the call went in almost immediately, “Where have you been? I tried calling but you didn’t answer,”

“Yeah, sorry for going AWOL. I’ve been…busy. I caught something back here. I just reported it,” Behind you, you could hear the scorpion still struggling to free itself, “It’s an ugly one, Mayday’s going to love it.”

“(Y/N), listen, I think you should come back here. You and Miguel should try to talk…”

“P.B., I love you but I really don’t want to talk about that right now. Okay? How about you come over here and help me drag this feisty little shit back to the HQ so we can send it home? You won’t believe it; it has to weigh at least…”

When you turned around to proudly stare at your prisoner, you were met with nothing but a lone stinger, eerily dangling from the ceiling. Your proud smile faded as quickly as it had arrived. Before you could open your eyes to say anything else, you found yourself trapped between two cold surfaces that painfully squeezed all the air out of your lungs as you let out a painful yell. You desperately grabbed each side of the pincer, trying to pry them open to release yourself to no avail. With your brain already starting to run low on oxygen, your strength began to fade. You heard Peter questioningly say your name from the device still attached to your wrist, but he sounded as if you’d been submerged underwater. And his voice sounded as if it was further, and further away. You were falling into a deep and dark lake, air deprived and without enough strength to swim to the surface. So you let yourself sink further, close your eyes and let darkness engulf you as you keep going down.

You’d wondered once or twice what would come after life. Since there was no way for you to be certain about anything, you decided to believe what sounded the most comforting. You would wake up in a beautiful place, full of light, that smelled like freshly baked cookies all the time because you would be sitting at a kitchen table with all the people that you lost along the way, and it was time for all of you to have cookies with whatever you wanted to drink, maybe you just hung out in silence, or you would discuss all the wisdom that the act of passing away seemed to come with…the point was that in no scenario did heaven smell like antiseptic.

This discrepancy was what made you start slowly blinking as you furrowed your eyebrows, the intense white light surrounding you making your head spin. Eventually, you were able to discern some shadows that slowly morphed into a familiar face.

“Hey, welcome back,” Jessica gently greeted you from a chair in the corner of the room. The hospital room. Like they’d done hours before when you woke up from your nap, a new wave of unpleasant memories came crashing down once more as you tried to sit up with a worried expression.

“Is…are we both okay?” It wasn’t until you tried to ask that you noticed a certain reluctance at saying the word.

“Yes, don’t worry,” Jess immediately assured you. Then why did she look so troubled?

“Why didn’t you say anything?” She asked, rolling her chair closer and grabbing your hand gently, “Honey, of all people you know I would’ve understood,”

“Jess, I’m so scared,” Was all you came up with before shutting your eyes and clamping your lips together to keep the sobs inside, tears already beginning to fall from your cheeks, “This wasn’t supposed to happen, I don’t know how I’m going to handle this, how am I supposed to do this if I can’t even take down a lousy scorpion without getting myself killed?”

With a reassuring smile, the woman tried to hug you as much as her pregnancy allowed her, comfortingly running one hand down your hair and rubbing your back with the other.

“See? You’re great at this already and your kid isn’t even here,” You sobbed against her shoulder, too exhausted to return the embrace.

“What makes you think you won’t be?” She asked, pulling away to give you some space and much-needed room to breathe.

And you knew the exact reason. It came to you so fast and with such clarity that it scared you. But maybe she would understand that too. However, right as you opened your mouth to speak, a soft click coming from the door interrupted you right before it opened, leaving you completely exposed to the thorough, scrutinizing look of the man that hours ago you thought you’d never lay eyes on again.

You turned at Jess, hoping she’d create an excuse for him to leave you alone. You weren’t done talking to her. You desperately wanted her to stay. However, she’d already turned to look at him and left her chair.

“I’ll give you a moment,” She said and, after gently caressing your shoulder one last time, left the room.

And then there were two.

For the life of you, you couldn’t think of one single thing to say, much less anticipate what his next move would be. Yet, your eyes never left his. Your jaw hurt from how hard you had to clench it to keep yourself from bursting into tears again. Fuck, could the hormones be acting up already? Right when you were starting to wonder if, should neither of you say something, you would just stay there in this staring contest until the end of time, Miguel spoke.

“How long have you known?”

“A day. Or so.” You blurted out so quickly that he wasn’t done speaking when you replied. It wasn’t until his eyes left yours and wandered down that you realized you’d been clutching your pale blue gown the entire time. As you slowly let go of it, you realized your hands were shaking.

“And you didn’t say anything?” He asked again, his voice turning one octave higher right in the middle of the question.

“Well, I found out not so long ago, and immediately after I was called here to help so I thought we had bigger problems and this could wait. But then you said we had been a mistake all along so I imagined I was on my own for this one. And I think that pretty much covers it.”

Silently, he took a seat on the chair next to the hospital bed.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” He replied, not looking at you but at an empty spot on the wall, “Back there, when I realized you were gone something didn’t make sense. You’ve pushed back much harder for less important things and now you just turned around and left? And with this, it makes even less sense. Even out of spite, you would’ve told me before leaving.”

You hated how well he knew you, and how right he was. And how what he said didn’t make you angry, but instead make you confront the harrowing confession you’d left unfinished before he walked in.

“What if you were right?” You asked taking a deep, shaky breath, “I didn’t intend for this to happen, you know? It just did. What we had was manageable because at least it was just between us, no third parties affected, if anything went wrong with the timeline and such we could call it off and that was that. But now there was something tangible real coming out of this and I panicked because what if it messed everything up? What if we’d made a mistake? But I just didn’t want to think about it until you sort of confirmed it,”

You weren’t going to cry. You refused to cry in front of him while having this conversation. You tried to focus on anything else to cope with his seemingly endless silence, anything but his slouching shape next to you. The soft fabric of your sheets, or the faint whirring of the monitor next to you displaying your vitals. Now you focused on your breaths. Long, deep breaths.

“So,” He finally spoke in a hoarse voice you were sure you’d never heard before, and you were so taken aback by it that you turned to look at him before you could stop yourself to find a strange, oddly endearing sight. He was crying. Well, maybe that was a bit of a stretch but there were definitely tears in his eyes and even if he was better at hiding it, you were sure he was struggling to keep them confined there as much as you were. Suddenly self-aware of the change in his voice, he cleared his throat before continuing.

“So, we’re having a baby?”

He sounded so expectant, and yet so afraid of the answer. He was absolutely terrified. You could see it in his eyes. This man, who faced life-risking challenges every day and had seen enough for several lifetimes, had never seemed so frightened. The thought, for some reason, made you laugh as you shuddered when you released a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Seems like it,” came the reply in such a croaky voice that it left you no choice but to laugh a little bit more.

This time he laughed too, although you could barely catch a glimpse of his smile before being engulfed in a hug that made you wish you weren’t in such a state so you could pull him as close to you as you really wanted. Instead, you settled for resting your forehead against his shoulder as he pulled away enough to plant several small and warm kisses on your temple.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered, “God, I swear I didn’t mean one single word. Whatever happens next, we’ll deal with it as it comes, I don’t care, right now all I know is none of this would’ve been worth it if it hadn’t brought me here to you,”  

“Hey, don’t get sentimental on me, O’Hara,” you jokingly said, pulling away to be able to look into his eyes, “We’re going to be just fine,”

“I won’t if you keep doing stupid shit like this, (Y/N), ¿qué carajos te pasa? ‘we’re going to be just fine’ Claro, si por tu culpa no me da un infarto primero,“ He scolded you, leaving his seat, “You know you’re benched, right? You’re staying right here, where I can keep an eye on you and make sure you stay out of trouble,”

“What about my dimension? There are plenty of non-interdimensional criminals there desperate to be caught,” You complained.

“Well, I’m afraid the NYPD’s going to have to figure it out for themselves for the next few months. Might even teach them to appreciate you a little more.”

“And if there’s another anomaly?”

“Dios mío, mujer,” He impatiently argued back, “I’ll go then. Or we’ll send somebody else. You’re staying here. Period.”

“Fine,” You huffed, not pleased at all with the order despite knowing you’d been very lucky this time, “But just for three months,”

“Six,” He stubbornly insisted.

“Five, but Peter’s going to be the godfather and you have to tell him.”

A disgruntled sigh echoes throughout the room.

“Fine,”

Taglist: @anywherebuthere @khaleesihavilliard @spookyboogyuniverse @sunshiines-stuff @letharue @withbeautyandrage

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x female reader #spiderman across the spiderverse #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #spiderman 2099 #spiderman atsv #across the spiderverse #atsv #angst #female reader #reader insert #Spotify

[foldingfittedsheets]

My first ever concert was Death Cab for Cutie. I was supposed to go with a friend but she bailed. The venue was this gorgeous local park that put on concerts over the summer so it was a big outdoor area.

I thought about not going but I was like, social anxiety be damned. I will go to this concert alone! I’d already bought the tickets and it would be an adventure. In my heart I was hoping someone might ask me to join them which in hindsight was fairly ludicrous given the insular nature of both Death Cab fans and Pacific Northwesters.

So I went alone and sat alone. I still had a pretty nice time and when the concert finished I got up, folded up my blanket, and headed out. I was a little puzzled more people weren’t leaving but I figured it was just that they were having a nice time with their friends on the grass.

I had made my way out of the venue when music started back up. I froze.

Readers, I didn’t know encores existed.

I stood outside the fence, feeling ridiculous, listening to my favorite song drifting along the night air over the barricade. The tickets were only good to be scanned once. I’m certain now if I’d explained to the door people they’d have let me back in, but I was young and embarrassed.

I sat outside the fence on the warm summer evening as the light faded, wishing I weren’t alone, listening to music about being lonely.

#ramblies #death cab for cutie #my main recollection was that the silversun pickups opened and absolutely bombed #they also decided to bash Ben gibbard right before a song? then when it ended there was almost no applause and they walked it back #but it was decidedly chilly toward them after that

[thetriumphantpanda]

feel the rain on your skin | din djarin

Summary | The Mandalorian has never felt the rain on his face.

Pairing | Din Djarin x F!Reader

Word Count | 1.5K

Warnings | Future chapters will include smut, but this one just involves a lot of yearning mainly.

Authors Note | I saw this absolutely stunning piece of work by @plattenbauprinz and I couldn't let it lie, I had to write it. I have never written for Din before, because he's like a comfort blanket to me, but I couldn't resist. This will be part of a longer series which I cannot wait to share with you all. As always, comments, reblogs and freaking out in my ask box are all welcome and if you enjoyed this, please consider supporting me with a donation to my Ko-Fi.

I no longer use taglists - please follow @thetriumpantpandanotifs and turn on notifications to know when I upload fics.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Ko-Fi

It’s raining. You can’t remember the last time you were anywhere that it rained. The Mandalorian has acquiesced to you wanting the Crest open so you can listen to the drops pelt the ground. It’s comforting. Reminds you of home. Not that you have a home anymore. No family, no base to dream of returning to, but it’s comforting none-the-less. 

It hadn’t even been planned like this, The Mandalorian and you, it had just sort of happened. You’d hurt yourself in front of him, thought that the shootout he’d caused was over. You’d moved from where you were cowering, attempting to run anywhere that might be safer than the boxes you’d used as a barricade. You’d been wrong though. He’d been waiting for his final assailant, who you’d later learned was his bounty, to show himself. He’d done just that, almost simultaneously as you’d started running for the door on the opposite side of the street. The blaster had grazed your upper arm – not the worst injury by any means, but you still cried out, crumpled to the ground in pain, and waited for what you’d assumed would be your ending. 

You’d listened as the two exchanged more fire until the town was silent again. You’d convinced yourself he’d walked away, and you wouldn’t have blamed him really, he didn’t owe you anything, your injury was your own fault, and in the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t even that bad, you were just being dramatic. But then, his shadow fell over your body, blocking out the early afternoon sun as he bent, picked you up bridal style and carried you all the way to his ship. He’d patched you up silently, left you there on your own whilst he retrieved the body of his bounty and returned. 

“Do you have somewhere to go?” He asked, clearing up the mess he’d made cleaning you up. 

Technically you did. The small, dark room you called home on this Godforsaken planet. But no-one would miss you, no friends, just the landlord that would miss his money. So, you shake your head. 

That’s how it had been for months. Trailing behind him wherever he went. It started as him taking you to the next planet, he was going to drop you there, but when he turned to you and asked if you thought it would do, you’d shaken your head and said no. It was a lie, because wherever it was – you don’t remember now – it would have been fine. It was more of a test, testing to see what he would do. You certainly didn’t expect him to shrug and lead you back to The Crest. This had continued for months, a sort of dance between the two of you, until he’d simply stopped asking you. You think it’s because secretly, not that he would actually admit it, he’s lonely. Even though he has The Child, the little green monster who you think might actually be the real reason you don’t want to leave. He’s more silent than The Mandalorian, but when he looks at you with those buggy eyes and starts to cause havoc, you can’t help but let your heart swell. 

He's a man of few words, The Mandalorian – doesn’t like small talk, tends to remain silent when you sit with him the cockpit and chatter away. You don’t really know much about him apart from what you’d learnt about their creed in your younger years. 

“You know, if I’m going to stay with you, you’ll have to tell me something about you eventually.” You teased one time, he was sat in his chair in the cockpit, you were behind him, eating some ration pack. All he’d done was huff through his modulator. Sounded more like a challenge to you than anything else.  

And so here you were, months later, sitting just inside The Crest, just enough to keep yourself dry, knees brought up to your chest as you let the cool air fall over your body. You can hear his heavy footsteps before you sense him next to you. When you tip your head up, he’s leaning on his right side against the opening of the ship, arms crossed over his chest. 

“You know, when I was little, I used to run around in the rain,” You muse, “Get all muddy and wet, I wonder why we never do that when we grow up.” 

“I’ve never felt the rain.” It’s a simple confession but one that almost breaks your heart, because of course he hasn’t. Committed to his creed and The Way, this man who you really think at this point was made purely of beskar, of course he’d not felt the rain on his skin. 

You stand slowly, taking tentative steps down the ramp until you can feel the drops hitting your skin. It’s cold, is the first thing you register, and then you start laughing when you see him, still leaning against the side of The Crest with his arms folded, helmet tilted in a way that you just know means he’s frowning under there. 

“Come on.” You urge, holding out your hand as you walk a few more steps backwards. 

When he doesn’t follow you, you hold your arms out and spin, holding your face to the sky as the water hits your skin. You giggle again until you slip, the mud underfoot making you unsteady. You would have fallen if it hadn’t been for the strong arm that wraps around your middle to keep you up. When you pull yourself up, your face is almost close enough to his visor that you could breathe onto him and draw shapes in the clouds you leave behind. He doesn’t let you go though.

You can feel the rain soaking your hair, seeping through your clothes, and there’s something oddly romantic about the way he’s holding you, his hand splayed across your lower back. If this had been anyone else, they’d lean in and kiss you, you just know it. But he isn’t anyone else, he’s The Mandalorian, so he finally unravels his arm from your back and moves to walk away. 

“Hey,” You say softly, gripping his wrist, turning him back to you, “Just trust me, okay?”

He gives a short nod. You stand in front of him, close your eyes, and put your hands on his helmet. You don’t add any pressure, you’re not going to force him to do this, but you’re going to give him the choice. Eyes firmly pressed shut, you wait. It feels like an eternity, but then you feel his gloved hands cover your own, some kind of mechanical sound you’ve never heard before, but then your hands are moving with his own, moving the helmet from his face. 

You keep your eyes closed as your hands fall from beneath his own. You don’t know why but you place them on the cool metal of his chest as you tilt your head back up to the rain, letting it cleanse you, although from what you don’t know. You don’t know how long you stay like this, your hands on his chest, but it feels like hours. Then, you feel the gloved hand that isn’t clutching his helmet meet the skin of your face. 

You gasp when he cups your face. It’s soft, gentle, and he just rests it there for a moment, letting your cheek tip further into his touch. Then, his thumb starts to move slowly across your skin, rubbing a line across your cheek that feels like it might set you alight. Then, his gloved thumb pulls down and drags across your bottom lip. You think now about how easy it would be to flutter your eyes open and look at him, look at the man he really is under all his metal, but you don’t, you wouldn’t dare. You just stand there, letting him take you in with his naked eyes. 

“Mesh’la.”

You have no idea what it means, but you think it must be important, something he’s not yet ready to tell you, if he speaks it in his own language and not the one you share. But his voice, oh his voice, it’s so pretty, you think. Then, his warm touch is gone. You breathe out air you hadn’t realized you were holding onto. 

“You can look now.” His voice is back to what it usually sounds likes, meaning his helmet is back on. 

You slowly blink your eyes open, letting them adjust to the light. He’s stood in front of you, stoic as ever, as if he hadn’t just been the most vulnerable he’s ever been in front of you. You want to run to him, wrap yourself in him, ask him to touch you again and never let go. You don’t though, you just follow behind him back into the dry cover of The Crest. 

“You’re cold.” He observes simply when you start to shiver, sodden clothes sticking to you. 

“I-I’m f-fine.” Your teeth chatter, betraying you. 

He rummages through a box, pulling out clean clothes. They’re his, they’ll drown you when you wear them, but something about this feels like turning a corner, all of this does, so you take them when they’re offered to you. Set them gently on the counter in the fresher as you wait for the water to warm enough. And as you stand under the slow fall of warm water, you wonder what other firsts you might be able to show The Mandalorian. 

#Din Djarin #The Mandalorian #Din Djarin fic #Din Djarin fanfic #Din Djarin fanfiction #The Mandalorian fic #The Mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin smut #din djarin fluff #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x f!reader #mando #mando x reader #mando x you #mando x female reader #mando x f!reader #the mandalorian x f!reader #the mandalorian x female reader #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you

[pherelesytsia]

Who did this to you? - 9

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x female/Reader

Summary: Bruised and broken, Y/N, trapped in a loveless marriage, arrives at her best friend’s house, desperately hoping someone will help her, aware she cannot return to the estate of her husband.

Warning: fear, anxiety, Angst, swearing 

Word Count: 2.7k

Part 8

Chains, bloodied and graced with torn rotting flesh, moulding in the light of the wanning moon, dangled in all directions in the howling wind. Bones cracked under polished shoes freckled by grime and coated with rotting leaves. The lightbulbs among the broken were shining faintly, breaking the doom, the utter darkness ruling in the endless corridor leading into different vacant rusty halls.

The wind was howling, a lonely wolf, a hound greeting the full moon. Water dripped through the holey ceiling of metal and musty wood. The old building, far away from civilisation, with shattered windows barricaded by boards was surrounded.

The man clothed in a form-fitting suit didn’t bear a map, didn’t need a compass to find the right path. The faint stench of mould lingered in the stiff air. Rats fled in great haste, screeched and warned the brothers hiding in the holes in the ground and empty chests. A few dark grey strands illuminated the dark sea. Untroubled Thomas followed the path. His fingers tapped against the polished metal. He did not put his gaze over his shoulder, focused on the light showing the end of the tunnel. Deep hush voices exchanged brief words and the grin on his lips widened, thought of ways to harm the men who had dared to touch his wife.

Thomas tilted his head. The light hit the tip of his shoes, but the Shelby, a demon, the devil himself waiting patiently, remained in the shadows. Deftly, he leapt to the side, hiding behind the cargo crates stacked high from India, Africa and the far East. Footsteps echoed and a soft whimper, a kitten, a newborn calling for its mother, fell silent. More men, dark dressed creatures, followed the order with drawn weapons and waited for the signal. Thomas leaned forward, peering through the crack between the crates. Two men, shabbily dressed, stood in the light of the flickering yellowish bulb, but his keen eyes couldn’t find the source of the whimper.

            “The money?” the thinner one pecked, wiping the oil from his fingers on his trousers.

The taller one laughed, folding his arms in front of his bulging chest. 

            “The woman will pay us off. I called her. By the end of the day, we’ll get the money.”, “We should have killed his wife right away,” the other said, leaning against the cargo boxes.

            “Karl, I would have killed her, but the other guy came. We would have died otherwise. I know him, Solomons. He would have killed us,” he interjected.

            “And what are we supposed to do now, Jimmy?” Karl questioned.

            “And what will happen to us, Karl?” Jim asked.

Karl shrugged his shoulders. Eyes widened in shock, screams followed, bullets pierced flesh and grazed bones. Men in suits stormed the old run-down complex, a tsunami swallowing villages and towns. Closely followed by his men, Thomas entered the room, stepped closer with his gun drawn, fired and hit the bull’s eye, ran ahead, searched and cursed, but didn’t find the woman. Sweat cascaded his face, turned, and hoped the men could answer his questions, but the eyes had paled. Cursing, Thomas stared at his brothers opening the crates in the hope of finding Peggy in one of them.

            “Where is she?” Arthur asked, heaving.

John cursed, nearly fell into the crate. Perplexed, he stared into the distance, cursed under his breath, turned with paled features towards his brothers and mumbled a short prayer.

            The moon wandered on, over land and mountains, on and on, climbing hills and swimming over lakes and raging streams. Under the cover of the moon, ghastly shadows crept forth. Light burned in the mansion far away from civilisation, from towns and villages. The vehicles parked in front of the mansion were not neatly lined up. Curtains were drawn and didn’t allow to witness the people warming themselves by the flames, gnawing on the hardened biscuits and awakening the sense with the dark unsweetened liquid. The phone didn’t ring, and the bell didn’t announce a guest.

The clock was ticking, heels clicked against the creaking hardwood. Voices had died down, the women did not chatter as the gentle voice breathing delicate word into the microphone sang of love and gentle kisses. The women exchanged meaningless glances, glanced at the man they thought would never enter the house, who had settled down by the fireplace and was leafing through the book with his legs crossed, staring again and again at the doors and windows in search of grim faces pursued by evil intentions. Y/N warmed her fingers on the cup filled with tea and dipped her tongue in the warm liquid.

            “Don’t worry, they will be here soon. It’s just a matter of time. Don’t worry, my dear.” Ada breathed.

She flashed the shaking woman a smile, breathed encouraging words, but they couldn’t banish the fear from her heart.

            “They’ve been gone for a long time. At least three hours now.” Y/N breathed.

            “You worry too much Y/N/N. The Shelby can take something. If he’s not here by seven, then we’ll go looking for him together.” Alfie joked.

Y/N stretched her arms into the air. Sleep gnawed on her bones and the voice in her head assured her that all would be well, that Thomas was on his way back, that the door would open soon and he would stand with Peggy and a promise to change by her side. She counted the seconds, focused on the clock, yet Y/N had lost track of time and space a long time ago. Her eyes widened. The tiredness was gone with the wind. Groaning, Y/N jumped and threw the blanket away. A wall, the last wall of defence rose in front of her and a palm settled on her back.

            “Come, little one. We will go together. You stay here. I have everything under control. I saw a car.” Alfie said.

Y/N tried to argue, telling him to stay with the others, that she wanted to go alone, but no words crossed her lips and nodded. Alfie smiled, gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, stuffed his gun into the pocket, and guided Y/N away from the richly set table. Keys jingled. Alfie pushed Y/N behind him, but the young woman went ahead. The cold air brushed her skin and painted her cheeks. Brows almost touched. Y/N looked questioningly at Peggy, shook her head, and lips parted.

            “Peggy?” Y/N whispered, not believing her eyes, convinced she was about to awake from a dream.

She looked healthy. Not a drop of blood clung to the long white evening dress, looked like a woman on her way to church to walk down the aisle. The hair was laid in curls, dotted with pearls and glass shaped in tears. The bouquet, white and red flowers fell to the ground. A smile, false as a fox’s, sweet as a snake’s voice, spread on her lips.

            “You’re well?” Y/N questioned.

            “Why shouldn’t I be well? I am glad to see that you are well. I see nothing happened to you while I was away. I told you to wait for me at home. I could never have forgiven myself if something bad had happened to you.” Peggy spoke coldly, stoically, emotionlessly.

            “Where’s Thomas? He’s out looking for you. I was worried about you.” Y/N uttered.

Spreading her arms, Y/N wanted to enclose Peggy in a tight hug, but fingers clawed deep into the thin material covering her, forcing her to stagger backwards.

            “Alfie, can you please let go of me?’ Y/N demanded.

Y/N turned and stubbornly demanded to be let free, but Alfie shook his head.

            “Why do you have to make everything more complicated? Get in there and don’t do anything stupid or you’ll all regret it. Are we clear?”, “I wouldn’t do that.” Alfie interjected. He removed his hand from the pistol and rose his hands into the air after he pulled Y/N closer to his chest.

            “Peggy?” Y/N breathed, hoped the person bore a mask, but it was Peggy.

Colour drained from her features. Cold metal pressed deeper into her skin. Bloodshot eyes forced Alfie to step back and told him not to dare to waste a single thought about doing something he might regret. Questions nor curses crossed Y/N´s lips pressed into a fine line. A lonely tear cascaded down her left cheek and left a red burning mark on her skin. Y/N questioned her life, every decision she had made, every word and complain she had said to Peggy in hope she would aid her. Synchronically, Ada and Polly arose, aimed, but no shots pierced the air. Peggy chased Alfie away to stand by the wall and he listened and placed the weapon on the ground as the women as Peggy stood tall behind the crumbling shield.

            “Why?” Y/N inquired, her heart bursting through skin and bone.

Peggy laughed and combed through Y/N´s locks with her long light-coloured nails.

            “I should be in your place. It would have been so easy. But those idiots let you get away and then you were at my door and I just had to let you in. I called these fools. I knew they would be at the bar, and informed them that you were with me, that they should walk in and take care of you. I then set off here, wanting to inform all of you that something might have happened to Y/N. I would have taken your place, but this man had to interfere with my plan.” Peggy joked.

Her bloodshot eyes slid from one person to another and pointing her finger at the tall man settling down on the armchair by the crackling fire.

            “How would you have done it? The Shelby wouldn’t have to believe you. Nobody would have.” Alfie questioned, with his arms crossed in front of his body.

            “Nobody? Suddenly everybody was searching for Y/N. When I returned home, she was gone. I am a good actress, I had classes when I was young and played in the theatre, always the evil and wicked,” the woman huffed.

She chuckled.

            “Thomas would have believed me. I would have played the good friend, helping him through this rough path. I just wanted to play the worried friend. I would have helped to find Y/N and then after a good month the case would have gone cold. The postman would have brought a letter from overseas and the problem would have been solved. Thomas would have found a good friend in me and later a wife,” she sneered.

            “But they trashed your house.” Y/N breathed, eliciting a malicious laugh from the mad woman.

            “I was a bit angry and had to let my anger run free. My plan was perfect.” she huffed, stroking Y/N’s skin with the weapon.

            “You wanted to kill me?” Y/N breathed.

            “No one cared about you, you told me everything, your former husband barely cared about you, you slept alone, spent your days alone, were air for everyone, I didn’t expect anyone to care about you.” Peggy laughed.

Y/N gulped, nodded, and breathed a soft prayer, prayed for the safety of all of them a few steps away from her.

            “A confident woman. Why would I marry you?” a deep voice sneered.

Smiling, Peggy turned around, fixed her hair and let go of Y/N, but she was rooted into the ground, turning into a statue overgrown by moss.

            “All these months you’ve been using me.” Y/N

The veil fell, and the wind carried away the dense mist. Y/N balled her hands into fists, nails bore deep into the soft flesh, but no sound escaped her lips. She faced Peggy, unfearful of the weapon in her right hand.

            “You never told me to give Thomas a chance, to at least try to get along with him. You never said anything nice about him. When he gave me flowers or chocolate, you told me he’d cheated on me and feared I would find out.” Y/N whispered, her voice raising with every fallen word.

She remembered the forgotten, the lonely nights, the long calls, the endless hours spend in the small room and crying her heart out to the wrong person, hoping Peggy would help her like only a friend could.

            “We spoke on the phone when Thomas didn’t come back that evening and instead of telling me that he must be working but you swore on your parents’ lives that you saw him in the arms of a woman.” Y/N cried out.

Y/N faced her friend, unfaced and untroubled by the loaded gun.

            “I suppose that was a lie, too. Probably everything you told me was a lie,” Y/N whispered.

She remembered the nights she was pouring out her heart and the answers that were as false as the snake’s words. She raised her eyes and looked up at Thomas. The man swallowed, saw the questions in his wife’s eyes and smiled.

            “I was never unfaithful, Y/N. I was a terrible husband, but I was always faithful to you,” Thomas assured her.

            “I believe you,” Y/N whispered, but Thomas had heard the answer.

Y/N advanced, oblivious to the woman in the wedding garment, wanting to go towards her husband, but Peggy made it impossible for her to do so, getting in the way.

            “Enough of this sweet talk.” Peggy chuckled.

Metal dazzled the eyes. She grabbed Y/N by the collar, scratched her skin, pressed her tightly against him. And the men and women, apart from Thomas, recoiled with their hands up. Thomas stashed his hands in his trouser pockets and nodded, guessing what she would demand.

            “You let me out and nothing will happen to her.” Peggy requested.

The Shelby nodded, exchanged brief glances with his brothers.

            “Good, go, you know the way. You hand Y/N over to me at the door. I leave my gun here and you put yours away. Do we understand each other?” Thomas spoke.

            “I don’t think you’re in a position to make demands here, Thomas, but I’ll take your offer. But I want them out of here. I want them all out of here in the kitchen.” Peggy interjected.

Thomas gestured to his siblings to leave, nodding, indicating that they should be on their way, that they shouldn’t worry, but his eyes betrayed him. Slowly, they rose from the sofa and did as Thomas ordered them again to leave. Heels clicked against the hardwood. Hush voices exchanged words, and the door slammed shut.

            “Can we go?” Thomas probed.

Thomas walked ahead, showed the way, paused at the open door, pushed it wide open and motioned the woman to leave. His hands clenched into fists. He wanted to free Y/N from the woman’s clutches, heard the soft whimpering as Peggy grabbed her former friend. Teeth gritted. Peggy stopped and turned with Y/N.

            “Here you go.” she shoved Y/N in his direction.

Y/N staggered forward, threatening to fall like a soldier, but arms wrapped tightly around her body, pressing her tightly to his chest. Thomas breathed loving words into her ear, pressed his dried lips on her skin and pressed featherlight kisses on her cheek. He murmured a prayer and begged for her forgiveness. Sweat danced down his face. He pressed another fleeting kiss on her temple. Thomas put his hands over her ears, deafening her to the screams and bullets piercing the air and suddenly, after all this time filled with screams and prayers, silence reigned over the land.

TagList:

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hellomyweirdos mysticalbouquetwolf-posts batmanbiersack02-blog fulla02 regulusblacksimpsblog  smile-sugar calsjack starry-night-reid chlorrox regulusblacksimpsblog 100percentlazybonez kenny-0909 diabolusdevia stuckinmylittlebubble  hobothejuggalo camomiletangeringe v7nt7

kiara-rose-blackthorn rangerelik abaker74 madsothree kittiowolf210 lucyandersons-world marigold-morelli meyocoko angelicwolfyqueen iwanttohitmyself pennywisesstuff batgurl42 sleepymadmess lolcaca yolobloggers lor-16 randomgirlwriting rs-fanfiction-2001 bohemian-lavender-girl woofgocows evilangel1324 mrkdvidal1989 nervousmumbling camomiletangeringe tommystargirl toxicenough deadunicorn159 nnercreationflower liar-or-lawyer optimisticsandwichgladiator comfortzonequeen nctma15 banksmars twistxdx inloveppp answer-the-sirens justanotherficreader nunya7394 lovemissyhoneybee lostgirl219 yourbloodyqueen valentinqee elisa20beth comfortzonequeen khaleesihavilliard horror-eye sometimesvaliantrebel untoldshortsofthefandoms untoldshortsofthefandoms yellowcrowngodess teamfreeavocados justtiasblog thegirlnextdoorssister reading02 kai-unknown squidwardsluverxx honeynicoole zealouspursecowboydeputy maw272727272727 redsa

#thomas shelby x y/n #peaky blinders imagine #thomas shelby x you #michael gray x reader #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby one shot #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby #arthur shelby x reader #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinder headcanon #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby fic #john shelby #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders x reader #john shelby x reader #tommy shelby x you #michael gray #cillian murphy imagine #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky fookin blinders #thomas shelby fluff #arthur shelby #peaky blinders #peaky blinder imagine

[literainey]

could you write something with Legolas comforting reader (physical affection please 🙏🙇‍♀️) after a bad day? he sees her and instantly can tell something is wrong. thank you!!!

₊˚ ✰` ꒱ DELICATE

⟡˳⋆ FEATURING : legolas x fem!reader ❨ comfort ៸៸ fluff ៸៸ established relationship ❩ ⟡˳⋆ WC : 0.4k ⟡˳⋆ NOTES : apologies for leaving this in my inbox for so long i wanted to save it to write it during a bad day of my own loool…legolas would 100% be supremeee at comforting reader ‼️🙏 ty again for sending a req <33

WHEN THE PRINCE SEES YOU in your crestfallen state, his arms instinctively reach out. Your sights lay on the ground before you through half lidded eyes, an overwhelming vulnerability prodding at your back as he approaches with a slender hand outstretched. He cups your cheek as he leans in to press a soft kiss onto your temple while a strong arm encircles your waist from behind.

There are no words needed in this moment of such tender care, but he uses them anyway as he engulfs you in his safe embrace. “My starlight…” He breathes. You turn to face him and immediately bury your face into his chest, eyes clenching shut with a feeble attempt to halt your incoming tears, yet they seep into his tunic and dampen the icy blue into a mass of grey, and when you look up to meet his softened gaze he can barely withhold the sight. “What troubles you?” He says, catching a freshly fallen tear with his thumb. Revealing your burdens proves much harder than you can handle at the moment, with a relentless lump that barricades your throat from speaking. You bring your palm up to brush over your dampened cheeks, and through your misty vision you see the gentle look of utter concern presented on his features. You lean your forehead onto his chest, clutching the fabric of his tunic and breathing deeply to gather yourself in an attempt to preserve what remaining composure you still possess. He listens with patience while you murmur softly through trembling breaths of the day you had, not once freeing you from his arms as he offers words of comfort and understanding.

What is it about the prince that compels you to fall apart with little restraint? Did it have anything to do with the delicate way in which he handles you? How he takes hold of your hand and guides you to lay your head on a pillow as he prepares you tea with only the freshest of herbs? Perhaps it was how his arms cocoon you into a nestled entanglement, kissing away the lone tear that slides down your cheek with hushed assurances. Maybe it was the way he spoke to you long after you are lulled to sleep, hands running up and downs your back in a slow caress while he whispers things of only love and support to you so you are reminded of his eternal devotion, even as you dream.

#‧ ִ ۫ ༄ ˳ ⟡ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄 : #legolas #legolas x reader #legolas x fem reader #legolas x you #legolas x y/n #lotr x reader #the hobbit x reader

[actual-changeling]

Crowley watches him silently, motionless, and with his shades securely in place. If he has been counting correctly, and he rather assumes he has, then Aziraphale has been talking uninterruptedly for twenty-five minutes and two seconds now.

Three seconds.

"…so, I'm sorry, Crowley. I'm so, so sorry."

He is wringing his hands, unable to stand still, and shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot, searching for Crowley's gaze and failing. The sudden silence feels almost odd, the expectation rolling off Aziraphale in waves even more so, only infinitely heavier, and for a moment, he entertains the thought playing the part Aziraphale has thrust upon him.

But only for a moment.

"Right," Crowley responds, tightening his grip on the door and pressing his other palm against the frame, effectively barring Aziraphale from entering like he has been for the last twenty-six minutes.

"Anything else?"

Confusion wrinkles his forehead, and his fingers no longer turn his ring round and round over a stretch of reddened skin. Maybe it is the utter monotony of Crowley's voice or the lack of reaction in general, but Aziraphale seems, finally, at a loss for words. His mouth opens and closes a few times, his eyebrows knitting together, and Crowley allows him another thirty seconds of patient waiting, after which he calls it a day.

"Great."

He steps back and closes his front door, normally and without slamming it, locks it, and then miracles up a deadbolt for good measure, before picking up his cup of coffee from the chest of drawers (still hot if it knows what's good for it) and strolling back to the living room.

Eighteen months. A year and a half. Another apocalypse is dawning on the world, but if there is anything the last six millennia have taught him, it's that humanity will fix it anyway; they have a knack for that, always outsmarting heaven and hell alike. Well, and him, since he is neither here nor there—so, a special mention to the former angel slash demon Crowley, thank you very much.

A familiar pain tugs at his stomach nevertheless, a faded lightning bolt of distress shivers down his spine, and Crowley sinks into the cushions with a sigh, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table and pressing play on Queer Eye again. The ache will never fully disappear, but it has lessened, and he has learned how to live with it, how to breathe around the crudely stitched-up black hole in his chest.

Aziraphale left, and Crowley stayed. It's really simple, in hindsight, and after weeks of moping and crying, being completely wasted for days at a time, and overall being so miserable, every single one of his plants stopped being scared and became concerned instead, Crowley had picked himself off the floor and kept moving.

Not moving on is worse, Nina had told him during one of their board game nights (none of them can resist Muriel's angelic puppy eyes in that regard, and it is, admittedly, kind of fun), and she had been right.

He still loves him, fuck, of course he does; he doubts he will ever stop. Yet if Aziraphale thinks showing up uninvited and monologuing without pause for twenty-five minutes is going to fix anything, he is sorely mistaken.

'Listen, do you hear that?'

'I don't hear anything.'

Ironic, somehow, that Aziraphale is still not listening to him. Crowley will wait because it's Aziraphale, because he loves him, because despite everything, he is fucking lonely and misses him enough to be tempted to take him back without any apologies whatsoever.

Just tempted, though. His barricades and well-practiced self-control are going strong.

He has to be sure this time. He has to be sure that Aziraphale won't break him again, because the most recent incident almost killed him, and Crowley loves earth, loves him—but he has to love himself more than he loves his angel, or it will destroy them both.

Jonathan van Ness gives some poor sod a new haircut, Crowley drinks his piping hot coffee, and Aziraphale goes home.

It's a nice Tuesday, all things considered.

-

i'm sorry but also not :)

#alex writes good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce #good omens ficlet

[separatist-apologist]

They Say I Did Something Bad is soooo good. The spice is perfection 🔥🔥🔥 Do you have an idea of your release schedule? Will it be one a day, like I Cab Go Anywhere I Want Just Not Home? Or weekly? Thanks as always for sharing your writing ❤️💛🧡

I'm thinking about uploading chapters 3 & 4 today, but then I'll want to do 5, too. The three of them work so well together and I think chapter 5 is shaping up exactly the way I daydreamed it

Oh whoops you asked a question, yeah one a day. I keep telling myself if I finish it quickly ill go back to my other stuff LOL hashtag im lying to myself

#the lonely barricade said if she guessed one of my plotpoints right i had to make feysand kiss #so #i had to rearrange something

[grxndprix]

yan!gojo sneakpeek

--take this sneakpeek of an upcoming oneshot lmao more notes at the end

tw; implied noncon, chasing !!

--

“What happened? You were so confident a few seconds ago, sweetheart, don’t pussy out now.” Satoru spoke nonchalantly, an air of ease to each movement. He took the lapse in response to lean closer and cage the girl in with his broad arms. She could only respond with more silence, an infinitesimal hesitation stretching further and further into oblivion — The lone and level sands stretch far away.

King of Kings — That is Satoru Gojo’s title. He was the god of this world, the next, the next, the next—  Gaze upon his works, ye mighty, look upon this rabbit caught fresh on the arrow, and despair.

The apartment suffocated all life out of it, holstering lain two corpses — One stuck in metamorphisis while the other decayed — Both rotting. Blue walls, once a sunny sky’s color now the endless void of an ocean, gray ceiling matted with the flickering, broken light. She’d known damn well Satoru had a better house, some wealthy mansion-like place, but he never offered for her to stay there, he always just showed up here at hers — And she realized he was waiting for her to beg. For her to rely on him.

But, she didn’t, never. Instead, she worked her own job. She paid her own bills, she paid her rent, she bought all the necessities. She lived for herself. If her own boyfriend took notice of her hardships and decided to stay a sadist? To wait for her to end up begging for his help, to land on his doorstep like mutton on a silver platter? 

Hell fucking no.

She assumed the deity just got tired of her stubbornness, because what was once just annoying, his ignorance had become like white noise to her — But recently, she knew he’d been sabotaging her. Coming over more, using up more of her utilities, breaking things she’d try to excuse with a strained smile, ignoring his smug one — He was getting impatient.

The other, well, larger issue that bothered [name] was the fact that he put nothing into the relationship. She was the one with intimacy issues, but she had to initiate every bit of touch, or else he’d ignore her completely. She was the one with a busy schedule, juggling a terribly-paying job, but she paid at every restaurant because Satoru conveniently forgot his wallet when she knows it’s in his pocket.

So, [name] had tried to end it. Gathering up every bit of confidence she had, fighting against the memories of sunset walks and shy handholding — They’d never even kissed — And texted him that they were over. Why give someone who didn’t put anything into the relationship any kind of real closure?

One could assume where that led to.

Here he was, snow-white hair and all, glare piercing straight through her skull, as if it could see everything — And honestly, it probably could.

The silence remained of course, but [name] brought a loose fist to her face, slow and steady. A notion that could be passed off as her brushing away a tear or maybe even rubbing her eyes—

Until her other fist came up as well in a right hook, aimed directly at Satoru’s face. It was stopped by some invisible force that she had no care nor time to question, because the man had been caught off guard. In that split second, the king of kings’ knees threatened to bend.

[name] knew that some demented thought that she wouldn’t hurt him had passed through his mind, which sent a partial shiver down her back, but it only fueled her legs to move. She ran past him, then past the guest bedroom, and straight into her own. He covered the only actual escape, so she needed to barricade and call the police—

A hand stopped the door before she could close it.

☆ OKAYY time for a debrief !! i !! am !! so !! sorry!! for disappearing oh my god jsdhkj i literally ran into the WORST writing block ever, and then studying hit, and then my hiphop recitals fucked with everythingg ughh --- anyway, back to the point !! i am going to try to get back to posting as frequently as i can, especially now that winter breaks here. side note; i also have covid and a supposed csf leak (brain fluid leak) !! doc says ill be fine dwdw lmao no wonder im gonna fail my classes

☆ anyways hope this sneak peek builds up anticipation for the full thing which will be, ofc, full on smut/noncon for my readerss -- byeeeee see u when i post it !!!

#dark content #jujutsu kaisen #tw toxic behavior #tw noncon #tw yandere #yandere #yandere jujutsu kaisen #dark writing #pls send requests #tw gore #yandere x reader #yandere satoru gojo #yandere gojo #yandere gojo x reader #yandere jjk #yandere jjk x reader #yandere gojo smut #yandere smut #yandere noncon #yandere oneshot #yandere drabble #ok bye <3

[jtl-fics]

Fluent Freshman - Part 12

PREVIOUS

If there was one thing no one would ever guess about FF it is that he unapologetically LOVES Black Friday.

You may be thinking. Ugh Black Friday. Everyone is so rude and tired. The deals aren’t even that good. It can turn into a blood sport at the drop of a hat over a toaster that is 15% off.

You are correct.

That is why FF loves it.

It is the one shopping day of the year where every single one of his instincts are correct, valid, and useful. He has pulled his gran out of the way of elbow drops, he has avoided the gaze of a woman in PINK sweat pants who was looking for someone to steal a blender from, and he knows without a doubt that the cashier hates him already so there’s no need to worry about whether or not they hate him.

It’s like a breath of fresh air!

Everyone is just as antagonistic and awful as he thinks they are!

Shopping is actually the blood sport he always feels like it is!

So there he is standing in a line at the nearest store (Target) waiting to be let in with the masses who all look ready to stab one another for better positioning for a TV. The jokes on them though because his only goal is the grocery section and he deals with the threat of repeated stabbings for BREAKFAST.

He spots an IHOP in the distance and hopes his gran doesn’t feel too lonely. They’ve gotten buttermilk stacks together at the IHOP by the mall for years after the two of them finished Christmas Shopping.

Someone elbows him in the side to get his spot in line but FF does not really care. Again, he doubts any of these people are going to be racing him to the all purpose flour.

It’s 4 AM and the barricades come down.

There’s a rush of people pushing and shoving but FF just steps to the side and watches as they all rush in. He’d mostly stayed in the line because the throng of people made it easier to stay warm. He had left his jacket back at the house because the five hour energy might be making his skin feel super sensitive but he is pretty sure that if he wore his nylon jacket he would die.

The five hour energy also may be upping his anxiety just a little bit.

He walks into the store at a leisurely pace and while the crowd fights over the carts he grabs one of the baskets. He can feel the eyes of other shoppers all wondering if he has some insider knowledge on a good deal that would only require the basket or if it’s a matter of who gets to the back to receive the ‘redeem’ coupon.

He sees a few shoppers get lured in by his siren call and much like a siren following anything that FF is about to do will undoubtedly lead to their downfall.

But FF doesn’t care about that.

He cares about HIS downfall.

So he makes his way to the grocery section and ignores the six different shopping assistants who try and guide him to where he ‘should’ be shopping and each of them only give him increasingly confused looks when he states his intention to go to the grocery section every single time.

Is it easier to ignore their stares when the five hour energy have set his baseline heart rate to something that might be too fast to register as a heartbeat? Maybe.

It is easier to ignore the confusion on their faces when he can see both the past (he asked for TWO favors from Andrew in one day how is he still alive???) and the future (still malleable at the moment apparently. There’s even a future where Andrew actually just is trying to make overtures of friendship but he dismisses that one as INCREDIBLY unlikely and looks at the far more viable one where Andrew at least makes his death quick while he enjoys his great gran’s brownies.)

It’s good to set reasonable goals for yourself.

So he arrives at the grocery section which is deserted aside from one employee who may or may not be asleep against a shelf. FF looks and….not a shelf he needs so he is not about to wake that poor man up.

So he gets everything he needs for his great gran’s brownies (he’s trying to buy his life here so he is not about to assume he can use ANYTHING in the house), the ingredients for a good breakfast (because he really needs to eat something that is not a five hour energy or sugar for the sake of his poor stomach and he may as well get enough for everyone), and (since Captain Neil mentioned it & he is trying to buy his life here) the ingredients to bake another pie.

While he grabs cinnamon he checks to see if they have grandma’s love in stock but, alas, it continues to be unavailable commercially.

He stares at the whipped cream for so long that the employee asleep in the other aisle woke up and asked if he needed help and, startled, he dropped it in his basket. “No I’m good.” He says before power walking out of the grocery department and deciding to brave the Home Goods section to buy some incense so that he can hopefully channel the spirit of his great gran to assist him in this, the darkest of his baking hours.

He arrives at the check out stations and finds the shortest line .

He can feel eyes on him, inspecting his purchases, judging them, judging him, who the fuck goes grocery shopping during the Black Friday rush?

FF.

FF goes grocery shopping during the Black Friday rush.

The cashier looks for hidden cameras but FF has no such thing accompanying him today or ever (as far as he knows.)

After a moment the cashier must look at the ever growing line and decide that whatever scheme they think FF is up to isn’t worth trying to figure out. They offer a membership card, FF valiantly declines to get one despite the two attempts.

He is out the door with four bags of groceries that all have a target on them that feels a little too correct. It’s 6 AM now (he really did lose a lot of time at the whipped cream section) and he’s walking back to the house in Columbia.

He actually feels a little bit better since he at least got to experience his actual favorite blood sport (sorry Exy) and he even got another 2 five hour energies while he was in the check out line so he could replace some of the ones that he had gone through.

“Smith?”

He would like to thank the combined weight of the groceries for keeping his feet on the ground when he heard Captain Neil’s voice.

He turns and Captain Neil is looking at him wide-eyed in his running gear that Smith has seen him in. “You were shopping??” He asks.

FF nods and lifts up the four bags as evidence. “Why didn’t you pick up your phone?” He asks.

FF almost scoffs but he doesn’t, “You can’t be distracted when you’re in a Target on Black Friday. That’s how you take an elbow to the eye.” He responds because it’s like Captain Neil has never experienced the WWE-like environment of Black Friday shopping.

Captain Neil blinks at him.

“Text Andrew or me next time you’re going to go off into the night or just let us know beforehand. Andrew would have driven you.” Captain Neil says and grabs two of the bags out of FF’s hand. “C’mon let’s get back and maybe you can get some sleep.” Captain Neil sighs.

“I’m fine.” FF adjusts the bags so he has one in each hand.

Captain Neil does not say anything so FF assumes that he has accepted that.

***

FF had not been asleep on the couch when Neil had walked through the living room. Neil, in a move that had Andrew fully waking up, went back to the room to check his phone to see if FF had texted him an update on going out. All that greets Neil is the impersonal series of texts that mostly confirmed when practice times had been changed, when the bus was leaving, and spelling on various Spanish words.

FF isn’t a big text person.

He’s more of an in-person kind of friend.

Neil likes that about him most of the time.

“What.” Andrew asks face still half buried in Neil’s pillow.

“Smith isn’t on the couch.”

That has Andrew getting up despite the early hour and their activities the night before. Neil watches as Andrew grabs his own phone to scroll through but seems to come up with the same lack of communication that Neil does.

Andrew does do the extra step and hit the call button.

But all he gets is the confirmation that the VM has not been configured that has greeted them every time FF misses their calls. (Voicemails make FF anxious so when he got his new phone he just…never configured it.)

Neil knew that FF was not pleased with them and somehow the calm request to either stop fooling around or let him out had hit him and Andrew harder than any of the screaming demands that the two of them were usually met with from Nicky, Kevin, Aaron, or any of the other Foxes.

“You said he wasn’t mad.” Neil says.

“He nodded.” Andrew confirms.

“Maybe he went on a walk?” Neil tries as they come out to the living room. They look at the front door and find that it’s locked but it looks like Aaron’s keys are gone. “He probably is going to come back if he took Aaron’s keys since Aaron wouldn’t be the one he’d be irritated with.” Neil rationalizes.

“He didn’t bring his jacket.” Andrew says looking at the black jacket still on the hook by the door.

“We can go and see if we spot him.” Neil offers.

Andrew nods and Neil heads out first since Andrew is still in his sleeping clothes and will need some time.

Neil had not expected to find FF walking back to the house with groceries for breakfast and the pie that Neil had mentioned hoping they could bake at the house.

“Is this for the pie?” He asks looking down at what was in the bags he was carrying as the walked back to the house. Neil managed to shoot off a quick text letting Andrew know that it was fine, FF just went grocery shopping.

FF just nods, “Got everything but Grandma’s love.” He says.

FF is a nice guy to brave the stores on a morning like this but FF also looks like he hasn’t slept a wink.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” Neil asks.

“I’m fine.” FF repeats.

Neil really is starting to understand his friends’ hatred for the phrase.

They get back to the house and Andrew is sat out in the living room. FF stops and blinks at the sight of him sitting there.

It is a well-known fact that Andrew does not willingly wake up early most days unless he has to. Neil is glad that Andrew has a friend that he’s coming to care about the way Andrew cares about FF.

Andrew gets up and yanks the bags out of FF’s hands. “Go to sleep. Today will be irritating if you’re half-asleep.” He says with a scowl and walks to the kitchen to put away the groceries FF had bought.

FF just looks at where Andrew had gone uncomprehendingly for a few moments and Neil figures he’s just tired. Neil feels guilty that him and Andrew messing around in the car like that had rendered FF unable to sleep and the two of them had agreed last night that from now on when FF is in the car they can talk all they want but hands stay on the wheel and eyes stay on the road.

FF is plopped down on the couch when Andrew and Neil come out of the kitchen after putting away the groceries (“These are the ingredients for brownies.” Andrew had noted as he put away melting chocolate.) and he’s looking through his flashcards again and not sleeping. He hears Andrew make a disgusted noise next to him and the next thing he knows Andrew is smacking the cards out of FF’s hands.

“Go. To. Sleep.” Andrew enunciates.

FF stares at him, then down at the flashcards. “I don’t think I can.” He says which is better than him lying and saying he wasn’t tired even if the truth had Andrew’s mouth stretch into a thin line that meant he was beating himself up for something.

“Try.” Andrew orders. “Just lay down and close your eyes. Nothing will happen to you while you’re sleeping.” He says.

FF blinks but nods turning on the couch and laying down. The blanket is still over on the lazy boy that Neil had set it on the night before and Andrew rolls his eyes before grabbing it and tossing it over FF.

“Thanks.” FF says before closing his eyes.

Neil looks to Andrew who nods and Neil accepts that there’s nothing else to be done for now and heads out on his run.

***

FF can admit that he’s a bit adrift in what Andrew and Captain Neil are doing right now.

He really should go grab another five hour energy because falling asleep IN FRONT of an irritated Andrew Minyard feels like a death sentence but “Nothing will happen to you while you’re sleeping.” And having a blanket thrown over him did not feel like a threat even if he can feel Andrew’s eyes watching him.

FF is tired and when he’s tired he tends to make stupid decisions. So FF lets himself drift off to sleep while the man who was likely going to move him to a secondary location sat and watched.

His dreams are not peaceful.

He’s running, can’t escape, an echo of words he should have considered before letting himself drift off and he knows he’s going to DIE.

He wakes up with a start to the smell of bacon, eggs, and hashed browns with Nicky standing over him. “Hey there sleeping beauty! I made you a plate!” He says and hands FF a plate of breakfast that smiles up at him with a bacon mouth, egg eyes, and hashed brown hair.

FF takes the plate and digs in immediately. He needs his strength.

“Today will be irritating if you’re half-asleep.”

Andrew Minyard was going to hunt him for SPORT.

NEXT

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As stated before if you’re up here and I spelled it right but you didn’t get a notification there might be something switched around in your settings that won’t let me tag you properly? (Cheesecookie whatever you did let me actually select you this time)

#Fluent Freshman AU #Did Andrew watch FF sleep for an hour to make sure he actually got some sleep? #Yes #Did Andrew find the 2 five hour energies and throw them out while putting the money FF spent on them in his wallet? #Also Yes #Nicky wakes up and remembers that he promised FF that he could sleep in his room #So he is trying to make it up to FF with smiley face breakfast #FF's love of Black Friday mirrors my own #Do I like the deals? Eh. Do I like the barely concealed threat of violence? YEAH BABY #We go visit my Fam in Ohio for Thanksgiving and then me my mom and my aunt make a battle plan #Mom's on grabbing duty since she's tall while my Aunt and I are on protection detail #I got a black eye one year but the Xbox 360 was worth it for Tales of Vesperia #then we get IHOP #I miss when it started at like 5 AM #Now it just starts on Thanksgiving which is bullshit #I ain't moving from my turkey coma #AFTG Fic #AFTG #AFTG AU #AFTG OC #AFTG Shitpost #Andreil #FF - Pt. 12

[notbornbutforged]

Touch of Ruin

──── 001. Beyond the Touch

pairing ☆ natasha x reader, wanda x reader

chapter summary ☆ Your life has always been a lonely battle, every relationship and simple human contact carries the risk of destruction, leaving you emotionally and physically distanced from the world. However, everything begins to shift when you meet Natasha. Her understanding and acceptance offer you a glimmer of hope and a chance at companionship that you never thought possible.

word count ☆ 2.3k

SERIES MASTERLIST || MAIN MASTERLIST

Living with a curse is a lonely battle, and for you, every day is a delicate dance of avoidance and isolation. Born with the power to decay anything you touch, simple human interactions—hugs, a pat on the back or even handshakes—are laden with danger. Your life, therefore, is a series of carefully navigated spaces and moments, where the risk of destruction lurks with every accidental brush of skin. This has not only left you physically distanced from the world but emotionally barricaded as well.

Your interactions are brief, superficial, carried out with the utmost caution. People tend to keep their distance once they learn of your dangerous ability, and you can't blame them. After all, who would willingly risk their wellbeing for a fleeting moment of closeness? This reality has painted your world in shades of solitude, where loneliness is both your safest haven and your silent tormentor.

Rain drizzled down, casting a gray pall over the bustling city streets. You walked with your hands tucked firmly into the pockets of your trench coat, your head bowed to avoid accidental eye contact—or worse, skin contact. The sidewalks teemed with people rushing about their daily lives, a luxury you could not afford.

Just keep moving, you reminded yourself, as you had countless times before. The echo of your footsteps mingled with the distant hum of the city, a lonely soundtrack to a solitary life.

As you turned a corner, a sudden jostle from the crowd sent a surge of panic through you. The collision was minor, a brief touch, but it was enough. A man, hurried and flustered, had bumped into you. In that fraction of a second, your bare hand grazed his skin. His eyes met yours, wide with shock, then pain, his skin graying as the deadly effect of your touch manifested. He stumbled, a gasp escaping his lips as he collapsed onto the cold, wet pavement, his life fading before the horrified onlookers.

Panic ensued around you, screams piercing the air as people backed away, forming a wide circle as if you were a contagion. Heart pounding, you stared down at the lifeless body, the guilt a heavy cloak on your already burdened shoulders.

"Not again. I didn’t mean to..." But the self-reproach was cut short by the sound of someone pushing through the crowd.

“What happened?” The voice cut through the chaos, clear and commanding. A woman pushed her way through the crowd, her red hair a vivid slash against the drabness of the rainy day. She knelt beside the man, her fingers touching the decaying flesh of his body. Then, her green eyes flicked up to meet yours, pinning you with a steady, unflinching gaze.

You swallowed hard, your voice a mere whisper, “I… I touched him. It was an accident.”

She stood, her expression unreadable. The crowd’s murmurs swelled around you, a mix of fear and curiosity. The woman glanced around, her demeanor calm despite the tension. “Clear the area,” she instructed the onlookers, her tone leaving no room for argument. As the crowd dispersed, she turned back to you.

“I’m Natasha,” she said, her voice softer now, but still edged with authority. “I need you to come with me. SHIELD needs to know about this.” Her hand hovered near the weapon at her side, not threateningly, but as a precaution.

The mention of SHIELD sent a ripple of dread through you. They were the stuff of legends, handling matters far beyond the scope of ordinary law enforcement. Being taken in by them could mean containment, or worse.

The ride to the SHIELD facility was tense, filled with the hum of the engine and your own racing thoughts. Natasha kept her eyes on the road, her profile set in concentration. The silence was a heavy shroud, broken only when you reached the gates of a nondescript building that belied its importance.

Inside, the stark white walls and the flurry of activity felt alien, a stark contrast to the gray outside and your gray existence. Natasha led you through a series of security checks, her presence a silent reassurance that you weren’t yet considered a threat.

Natasha led you down a series of stark, brightly lit corridors toward an office that looked more like a command center. The door slid open silently at their approach, revealing a room lined with screens displaying various data and global locations.

At the center, behind a large desk cluttered with reports and digital devices, sat Nick Fury, the man who was more legend than reality in your mind. He was poring over a document but looked up as you entered, his one good eye fixing you with an intensity that made you instinctively step back.

"Natasha," he greeted in a deep, gravelly voice, then his gaze shifted to you. "And you must be the new… concern."

Natasha gave you a slight nod, a silent signal to stay calm. "Director Fury, this is the individual I briefed you about. The incident earlier—"

Fury raised a hand, cutting her off. "I'm well aware of the incident, Agent Romanoff. What I need to understand is whether this is a threat or an asset."

The directness of his question left you momentarily speechless, but Natasha stepped in smoothly. "With the right training, there’s potential for asset. There’s control to be learned but also a power that could be very useful."

Fury studied you, his gaze analytical yet not entirely devoid of empathy. "What do you think?" he asked you directly, leaning forward. His demeanor was stern but you sensed a genuine interest in your answer.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of the moment. "I… I want to help, if I can. I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone. I just want to learn how to prevent it from happening again."

Fury nodded slowly, his expression softening slightly. "Good," he said simply. "That’s what I needed to hear. Romanoff, set up a training regimen. Start with basic control, then we’ll see where we can go from there."

The days that followed were a blur of tests and interviews. You were introduced to the concept of using your powers for something beyond mere survival, for something good. It was a foreign concept, one that took time to settle in your mind.

Natasha was a constant during this adjustment. She didn’t coddle you, but there was an understanding in her approach that spoke of her experience with people who were dangerous, willingly or not. Slowly, her initial wariness faded as she saw your earnest efforts to control your abilities, your genuine distress over the accidents of your past.

Training began, a rigorous attempt to learn how to control your deadly touch. But control proved elusive — there was no reigning in the destructive force at your fingertips. The more you tried to harness your power, the clearer it became that it was uncontrollable, a wild, untamed part of you that refused to be subdued. Each session was as much a lesson in humility as it was in futility, exposing the stark limits of your abilities.

Despite the frustrations and repeated failures, Natasha remained a steadfast presence by your side. Her patience seemed infinite, her determination unyielding as she pushed you through the grueling exercises. She didn’t offer false hope or easy reassurances; instead, she provided practical advice and quiet support, helping you face the reality of your situation.

Through her guidance, you began to focus less on controlling your power and more on managing your environment and interactions, adapting your strategies to ensure safety rather than suppression.

This shift in focus marked a turning point in your training. Rather than striving for complete control over your power, you worked on implementing safeguards and honing your awareness. Natasha introduced you to specialized equipment—gloves made from advanced materials, techniques for minimizing physical contact, and protocols for emergency situations. Each tool and tactic was designed not to change your fundamental nature, but to allow you to live with it more safely and effectively.

As these new methods became routine, a small sense of empowerment began to replace the helplessness that had long haunted you. It was a different kind of progress, one that did not erase the danger you posed but mitigated it, making your daily existence less fraught with peril.

During these sessions, you also learned a great deal about Natasha. Her seriousness during training was balanced by moments of dry humor and shared struggles, revealing layers of her character that you had not anticipated. She was not just your mentor but was becoming your friend, someone who saw beyond your lethal touch to the person you were inside.

Your relationship deepened, built on the foundation of mutual respect and shared experiences. Natasha's trust in you grew as she witnessed your commitment to mastering your situation, and in turn, you began to trust her more deeply than you had trusted anyone in a long time. The isolation that had defined your existence began to crack, slowly replaced by a network of connections within SHIELD.

As weeks turned into months, you found yourself integrating into the agency more fully. You attended briefings and debriefings, participated in non-combat roles, and started contributing to the team's missions with your unique insights. The sense of being part of a community, of having a role where you were valued not just for your power but for your intellect and determination, was profoundly healing.

One late evening, after a particularly challenging simulation that you navigated without incident, you and Natasha lingered in the training room, the echoes of the day's efforts hanging in the air between you.

“You’ve come a long way,” Natasha said, her voice carrying a note of genuine pride. “It’s not just about living with what you can do—it’s about making a place for yourself in spite of it.”

Her words resonated deeply, affirming the changes you felt within yourself. You were no longer just surviving; you were beginning to thrive, finding purpose and place in a world that had once seemed impossibly hostile.

"I never thought I'd find a space where I fit," you admitted, allowing yourself a moment of vulnerability. "Especially not here, and not with people who understand what it means to live with power like mine."

Natasha nodded, her expression softening. "We all have our burdens here, our own dangers we carry. It makes us careful, yes, but it also makes us understand each other better. You're not alone in this—not anymore."

This shift in focus marked a turning point in your training. Rather than striving for complete control over your power, you worked on implementing safeguards and honing your awareness. Natasha introduced you to specialized equipment—gloves made from advanced materials, techniques for minimizing physical contact, and protocols for emergency situations. Each tool and tactic was designed not to change your fundamental nature, but to allow you to live with it more safely and effectively.

As these new methods became routine, a small sense of empowerment began to replace the helplessness that had long haunted you. It was a different kind of progress, one that did not erase the danger you posed but mitigated it, making your daily existence less fraught with peril.

During these sessions, you also learned a great deal about Natasha. Her seriousness during training was balanced by moments of dry humor and shared struggles, revealing layers of her character that you had not anticipated. She was not just your mentor but was becoming your friend, someone who saw beyond your lethal touch to the person you were inside.

Your relationship deepened, built on the foundation of mutual respect and shared experiences. Natasha's trust in you grew as she witnessed your commitment to mastering your situation, and in turn, you began to trust her more deeply than you had trusted anyone in a long time. The isolation that had defined your existence began to crack, slowly replaced by a network of connections within SHIELD.

As weeks turned into months, you found yourself integrating into the agency more fully. You attended briefings and debriefings, participated in non-combat roles, and started contributing to the team's missions with your unique insights. The sense of being part of a community, of having a role where you were valued not just for your power but for your intellect and determination, was profoundly healing.

One late evening, after a particularly challenging simulation that you navigated without incident, you and Natasha lingered in the training room, the echoes of the day's efforts hanging in the air between you.

“You’ve come a long way,” Natasha said, her voice carrying a note of genuine pride. “It’s not just about living with what you can do—it’s about making a place for yourself in spite of it.”

Her words resonated deeply, affirming the changes you felt within yourself. You were no longer just surviving; you were beginning to thrive, finding purpose and place in a world that had once seemed impossibly hostile.

"I never thought I'd find a space where I fit," you admitted, allowing yourself a moment of vulnerability. "Especially not here, and not with people who understand what it means to live with power like mine."

Natasha nodded, her expression softening. "We all have our burdens here, our own dangers we carry. It makes us careful, yes, but it also makes us understand each other better. You're not alone in this—not anymore."

Her assurance, simple yet profound, cemented a feeling of belonging that you had started to feel. You were part of something larger now, a collective where each member had their own shadows, yet stood together in the light. This realization wasn’t just comforting—it was transformative, a beacon of hope that guided you forward into a future that was suddenly filled with possibilities.

And with her by your side, you began to truly embrace these possibilities. Natasha's presence had become a constant in your life, a symbol of trust and a source of strength.

#wlw #natasha x reader #mcu fic #natasha romanoff #lgbtq #natasha marvel #natasha x you

[eoieopda]

foresight (myg)

It all started with a bad joke and a bottle of Tanqueray.

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Fem!Reader | Darksided AU Type: One-Shot / Prequel to darksided (no. 2) & blindsided (no. 3,) but can be read as a stand-alone fic. Word Count: 11.3K 😳 Content: SPICY FLUFF (18+ or else - oral (m receiving) and penetrative, protected sex (p in v)); strangers to lovers au; POV switches; discussion of anxiety and negative self-talk; alcohol consumption (primary setting is a bar); tteokbokki; and just the cutest fucking duo. ft. Seokjin and a surprise cameo by reader's cat. A/N: The origin story for my beloved babies, which takes place in 2016 (and uses Korean age, fyi.) I found this photo after I finished writing and nearly fell tf over because this was the Yoongi in my brain; jacket and all, omfg. My actual note (and tags) will be at the end! 💕 Listen to the playlist here. Read Interlude: Sunrise drabble here.

Min Yoongi wanted it on record that he tried.

When Seokjin pushed, and pushed, and pushed Yoongi to ask out that girl, he did. She was someone Seokjin knew from somewhere, and she seemed nice enough. All Yoongi really knew about her was that she was pretty, though he hoped to learn that this was the least interesting thing about her.

If nothing else, Yoongi proceeded out of spite. He wanted nothing more than to shove it in Seokjin’s face that he was capable of being a normal, twenty-four-year-old man. He wanted to prove to Seokjin — and to himself, if he were being honest — that he wasn’t a borderline-reclusive workaholic.

Or, at the very least, he wasn’t exclusively a borderline-reclusive workaholic. He did want to get out and meet new people; just in negligible and infrequent doses.

It had been so long since Yoongi last went on a date that three (3) generations of iPhones had come and gone. Children who hadn’t yet been born were now entering pre-kindergarten, making macaroni art with the motor skills they’d obtained during his romantic sabbatical. It was embarrassing; it was depressing; and it all piled up at his doorstep, barricading him inside his apartment.

There was a vicious cycle at play, making matters worse. It casted Yoongi as the lone sock, swirling and drowning inside his washing machine brain. The plot was as stupid as it was repetitive:

Relentless schedule aside, Yoongi didn’t date because it made him anxious. Then, he’d become more anxious because he wasn’t dating. Ultimately, he’d end up too anxious about his anxiety to address the thing that caused it in the first place. And around and around and around he went.

Why the fuck did people subject themselves to this on purpose?

Asking her out was the simplest part. With a quick text and an emoji — the latter of which Yoongi deliberated over for far too long — he’d knocked the ball into her court. She’d responded within minutes, which he assumed was a good sign. Saturday night, they’d decided, at eight o’clock.

Unfortunately, no part of what came next was easy.

Yoongi had spent the four subsequent days in a tailspin. Spiraling over where to take her, what to wear, and what the fuck to talk to her about. In the few interactions they’d had before, all she seemed to do was pepper him with questions about his career. Like everyone else, she was fascinated by Yoongi: the Concept.

Whether or not she cared about Yoongi: the Person was yet to be determined.

Worse, after three years in the public eye, Yoongi worried that he’d lost track of what once made him relatable. That boy from Daegu — with a chip on his shoulder and a fire in his belly — was traded in for a luxury model. He no longer had to debate between purchasing a meal or a bus ticket home from work because he was now loaded and living in Hannam-fucking-dong.

Ugh.

People looked at him with stars in their eyes, but he could never tell if anyone truly saw him. And even if someone did, what was left to see, anyway? Yoongi doubted that he could pick himself out of a lineup now.

Eventually, after three nights of tossing and turning, Yoongi had landed on something that felt meaningful. He would take this girl to a hole-in-the-wall that he loved dearly, which sat relatively unnoticed in a lesser-traveled pocket of Seoul. It was quiet and unassuming, but had a life of its own.

As far as Yoongi could see, it was the perfect place to find the parts of himself that’d dropped on his rapid, record-breaking ascent. Decidedly unremarkable but worth it, nonetheless. There, she could get to know the person behind the persona. Maybe she’d even come to like who he actually was.

Before heading out, Yoongi had pitched his plan to Seokjin and received a thumbs up in response. Unfortunately, her reaction came from two knuckles down. Her departure followed less than sixty seconds after her arrival. She’d fled so quickly, in fact, that she managed to flag down the very same cab before it could clear the block.

Through her window, she’d shouted out her scathing review: Yoongi was cheap; she would never drink bottom-shelf liquor with him in a glorified dumpster; and she both expected and deserved better because he could access better. Yoongi had stood stunned on the sidewalk as she disappeared — likely forever — in a cloud of exhaust.

Somehow, it felt like that cab had run him over as it peeled out.

To be clear, none of this was painful because Yoongi was disappointed; he wasn’t, not in the slightest. Good fucking riddance. It was worse than that. He felt validated, and he knew exactly how fucking sad that was.

See? Told you so, he’d thought bitterly to himself. Then, immediately, Yoongi criticized himself for being too critical. Hypocrite.

So, there he stood.

If Yoongi followed his instinct and went home, he could rebuild his barricade and watch several episodes of Chopped before passing out alone in his bed. A productive night, despite its fruitless start. But then, he realized, he’d have to answer when Seokjin inevitably called to ask what the fuck went wrong.

Fuck it.

Yoongi shrugged to no one but himself. He then slipped from the sidewalk, through the dumpster’s front door, and straight to the bar. Slumping down onto a leather-topped stool, he rested his elbows against the mahogany countertop and dropped his dejected chin in his hand.

Is this rock bottom? He wondered, Drinking in a bar alone on a Saturday night?

Within seconds, there was a loud crash several meters away. Yoongi jerked his head towards the source of the sound, but he saw nothing. His brows furrowed. All was quiet until a whine erupted from the doorway to the back room.

“Shit, shit, shit!"

Upon standing, Yoongi pressed his hands against the bar and leaned forward to investigate; equal parts concerned and nosy.

On the ground in the doorway, he found shattered remnants of what was once a bottle of Tanqueray. Crouching above the pine-scented wreckage, plucking chunks of glass off the hardwood, he found you.

Yoongi immediately grimaced at your chosen method of disaster clean-up. There was already a bandage wrapped around your finger — with a Hello Kitty pattern, he noted — that confirmed your ongoing battle with clumsiness.

You didn’t need to add to that collection and he couldn’t watch in good conscience while you made that outcome more and more likely.

Mind made up, he crossed quickly to the side of the bar he had no authorization to be on. As soon as Yoongi reached you, he saw the nearby bucket labeled “broken shit.” Then, he clocked the small hand-brush and dustpan resting against it. Wasting no time, he grabbed all three; and without a word, you allowed him to carefully usher you out of the way.

Crouching down the way you had, he began to sweep the broken shit into the dustpan. Too preoccupied to glance up, he asked without looking, “Are you okay?”

When you didn’t immediately respond, Yoongi’s eyes quickly rose to find you with strawberry-pink cheeks and wide, vaguely horrified eyes, and —Shit, was he staring?

Say something. Say anything. For fuck’s sake, Yoongi, at least smile so she knows you’re not angry.

What he landed on looked more like a grimace, he was sure of it, and it didn’t seem to fix that look on your face.

“I’m so sorry,” you squeaked once he finished dumping the glass into its designated receptacle.

You didn’t give him a chance to tell you that an apology wasn’t necessary, opting instead to rattle off your perceived sins at an alarming rate:

“I think I’m the only bartender in Seoul that’s this bad at tending bar. I mean, I didn’t even know anyone else was here — because I wasn’t paying attention — and now you, the patron I’m supposed to be serving, are cleaning up after me. It’s definitely supposed to be the other way around —“

A smile was twitching at the corner of his mouth that he couldn’t prevent. Without a door into the so far one-sided conversation, Yoongi had to jump through the window you created when you finally drew a breath. “Have you got a mop?”

Based on the way your eyebrows knit together, you’d been thrown entirely for a loop. You re-opened your mouth, likely to apologize for not following the sudden twist. Yoongi refused to allow further self-flagellation, though.

Classic Yoongi: demonstrating more compassion for strangers than he ever shows himself.

“For the gin,” He chuckled softly as he gestured down to the puddle at his feet. Suddenly and baselessly bold, he shot you a playful look and tacked on, “And for all the words you just spilled.”

The aforementioned eyebrows shot up as your jaw dropped further. Thankfully, it was amusement and not offense glittering in your eyes. Pretty. As you crossed your arms over your chest, you tilted your head and sized him up with a quick glance.

If this was a test, he was determined to pass.

“Maybe,” you hummed.

Yoongi wanted to volley your nonchalant tone, but he couldn’t swallow the laughter bubbling up from his chest. He was grinning like an idiot; there was no denying it. “Maybe?”

Your eyebrow twitched ever so slightly, the perfect overture to the mischief on your lips. When you replied, that microscopic smirk never faltered: “Let’s say, for arguments’ sake, that there is a mop.”

A manicured finger was held up to stop Yoongi from interjecting.

Mystified, his poor brain tried to crunch the numbers. Statically, it made no sense that — out of the thousands of people he’d met in his life — he’d never come across someone quite like you. In a matter of minutes, you’d pirouetted from adorable, to self-depreciating, to coy and confident.

All-encompassing, all electric, you moved through tone shifts far more gracefully than you did through the bar.

And if he’d done the math right, this was the first interaction he’d had in recent memory that didn’t deplete his energy. In fact, it had the opposite effect. Gazing at you, Yoongi began to wonder if this was how extroverts got to feel as they moved through the world. Like it gave back more than it took. Lucky bastards.

Once Yoongi was thoroughly disarmed, you continued breezily, “Hypothetically speaking, would you let me be the one to use said mop? After all, it’s both my job and my mess.”

“Hypothetically?” He repeated, sucking in a breath through his teeth. Your eyes narrowed further as he paused to formulate a counterpoint. Meanwhile, Yoongi’s involuntary smile spread in a straight line across his face.

You’re a goddamn delight, full stop.

“Assuming, for the sake of this argument, that I do concede the mop in question —” Yoongi raised an eyebrow, “— How could I be sure that you wouldn’t hurt yourself? After all, you did just try to clean up broken glass with your hands.”

If this had been a gun fight and not banter behind a bar, you would’ve shot him dead. Like lightning, you quickly unraveled your arms and held your hands at the ready. That effervescent grin of yours might be his undoing instead.

Eyes alight, you threw down the gauntlet: “Gawi, bawi, bo?”

Never before in your life had you played rock, paper, scissors, and lost at every single turn. You’d also never requested a rematch for every loss before, continuing the game into perpetuity; but you had a hypothesis to prove and a perfectly unique smile to make wider.

No matter what you threw, he’d offered a gesture to counter it. If his eyes hadn’t gotten wider and wider with shock as it just — kept — happening, you would’ve simply decided that he was psychic. A mind-reader, predicting your every move before you’d even settled on it yourself.

Spooky.

At the start, his amusement had been more or less concealed. Withheld, even, like it was dangerous to grin with every single one of his teeth. Eventually, though, his shoulders shook the way yours did; and mirth pooled in the corners of his eyes as he wheezed through laughter with you.

You didn’t know him, but still, you couldn’t help thinking: there he is.

At some point during your unending match, he doubled over to catch his breath. Seizing the element of surprise, you’d darted into the storage room before he could’ve stopped you. When you reappeared with a mop and bucket in tow, you’d immediately begun to address the mess you made. It took a few moments of buffering for him to realize what you’d done.

That time around, he hadn’t shouldered your burden for you and thank god for that. First impressions were never your strong suit, and you were already starting from behind. Always too much, you couldn’t be useless, too.

Instead, he’d simply resigned himself to swapped names and spiked blood pressure as you struggled — stubbornly and independently — to dump the contents of that yellow, wheeled mop bucket into the utility sink. Standing quietly out of your way, Yoongi had looked close to proud when you managed to do it all without spilling a drop.

See, you’d thought, I’m verifiably Not Useless!

Once the evidence of your clumsy crime had been disposed of, you’d returned the cleaning supplies to their rightful space in the storage room’s closet. Similarly, you and your patron returned to your rightful places: him on his stool at the front of the bar; you, finally fixing him a drink behind it.

Ardbeg, single malt, neat.

After sliding the glass across the mahagony to his waiting hand, you glanced towards the front entrance. As usual, there were no pedestrians wandering this way; no cars on the street, either. The only quiet part of Seoul — especially on a Saturday night.

The bar routinely bordered on empty, but it had some magical quality to it: Nobody you saw inside for the first time seemed to be there for the first time. This was especially odd because it wasn’t a place anyone went to, just a place they ended up. Nobody’s first choice, it was a last resort only visible to people who knew where to look for it.

Yoongi was the first one to speak, unknowingly putting an end to your mythologizing. You just barely flinched at the surprise of his voice, but he managed to catch it. Then, he conducted a brief yet careful study of your face to determine whether you were simply jumpy, or experiencing some sort of medical event.

A gesture like that, done in passing, shouldn’t have meant so much to you. Really, all he did was look at you. It felt like more than that, though, because it was the second-kindest thing anyone had done for you in months — and it occurred merely twenty minutes after the first-place winner.

Now, that’s depressing.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” He hummed, “I only ever run into Yang Daehyun-nim, though it’s been a minute. Honestly, I don’t even know if he’s still around. You know him?”

“Yes, absolutely. He’s my husband.” You deadpanned and Yoongi nearly choked to death on his drink.

You were, of course, fucking with him. The man in question was swiftly approaching ninety, but he looked twice as old. You successfully maintained your ruse until Yoongi’s tongue breached the barrier of his lips and gathered his runaway whiskey.

Where am I? Who am I? Is that legal?

Yoongi simultaneously picked up the joke and his glass. He raised both with pure amusement on his face, “Cheers to the happy couple, then.”

Never one to raise a toast empty-handed, you quickly dumped what little remained of a nearby soju bottle into a shot glass. His eyes sparkled as he watched you race to catch up; even more so when you leaned in to clink your glass against his.

Oh, so he’s pretty pretty.

“To the happy couple,” you echoed.

With both of your drinks dispatched, you grabbed the bottle of Ardbeg to top him up. Expensive taste, you noted, not the low-rent version you were destined for.

If Yoongi hadn’t shown up to order it, that bottle would’ve continued to gather dust on the top shelf. Like you, none of your regulars had the capital to even glance that high. Granted, the sample size was abysmally small at only three (3) people, but the point still stood.

Until Yoongi mentioned Daehyun, you couldn’t think of a single reason why your employer bothered to keep anything like that in stock. Now, that piece seemed to fit. Still, you were puzzled as to why Yoongi would come to a dive like this to drink liquor like that.

Clearly, the man sitting in front of you contained multitudes.

At the exact moment you asked how long he’d been coming here, Yoongi wondered when you joined the staff. Your respective answers came simultaneously, too. His six years easily dwarfed your eight months.

True to form, you joked that he was more qualified to tend bar here than you were. He said his only relevant skill was cleaning broken glass.

It made you sad in some stupid way to realize that you could’ve met a hundred times over by now. Had more conversations like this, haunted the joint jointly rather than on your own. Truthfully, though, you were at least semi-soothed by the timing.

You were a horrible bartender now, but you’d been even worse before. He might not have survived this long.

Once again, Yoongi set your runaway train-of-thought back on track. “Eight months ago.” He took a sip, then he asked, “Is that when you moved to Korea?”

It was a simple question, certainly not an offensive one. The reason it nearly bowled you over was that no one had ever bothered to ask. Nobody seemed to notice the non-native accent that occasionally appeared when you spoke — not unless you referenced its existence first, that is.

Even then, people forgot. You wished you were confident that they simply got used to it, but you had the sneaking suspicion that nobody really listened when you spoke. After all, no one had a reason to give a shit about you, so long as you kept their glasses full.

The weight of your curiosity caused your head to tilt to the side. You allowed a tiny smile to spread as you asked, “What gave me away?”

“Don’t get me wrong —” He held up his hands to prevent a reaction you’d never dream of giving. “It’s not obvious. You’ve got a better grasp than some of my friends do — which is kind of sad, actually. They’ve lived here their whole lives.”

He gifted you a reassuring smile, then came the true prize: he licked his lips absently before speaking again. You had to clench every single muscle in your body to keep from swooning.

That cannot be legal.

“I noticed it earlier, but you were already embarrassed. I didn’t want to risk making it worse.” Yoongi still looked like he was afraid to hurt your feelings. “When you word-vomit — like you did earlier — your consonants sound like they would in English.”

This linguistic assessment didn’t surprise you; it was dead-on. It didn’t embarrass you, either, but you blushed nonetheless. Without thinking, you mused, “Makes sense that you’re the first to say something. You spend more time overseas than most, right?”

For a split second, you swore you saw Yoongi frown. A little twinge, one you would’ve missed if you weren’t so fixated on his every micro-expression. If you could have, you would’ve hit the rewind button and reverted back thirty seconds.

Was it off-limits, finally acknowledging that you knew who you were dealing with? Did it bother him that you did know, and proceeded to speak to him like the glaring disparity between the two of you didn’t matter? Did it matter?

“You mean to tell me —” He started quietly with a flex of his eyebrow. You feared the worst, even though Yoongi didn’t strike you as the type to make your failure to fawn a problem. “— That the place you lived before wasn’t under a rock?”

As soon as he saw your expression morph from panic to blatant relief, his eyes crinkled until every one of his facial features contributed to his smile. It was difficult to process how an expression that gentle hit you like a punch, but it did, and you felt a bit dizzy.

Professionalism be damned, you cracked open another bottle of soju and filled not one, but two glasses. Yoongi smirked — likely unsurprised by your willingness to drink with him on the clock — and easily accepted the shot you slid his way.

“To the worst bartender in Seoul,” You cheered as you raised it.

He rolled his eyes at your self-depreciation, but followed your lead without any meaningful resistance. Like it was choreographed, you both downed your shots in unison. Straight, no chaser. Just the slight burn in the back of your throat and the very first thing your scrambled brain could think to say:

“Do you want to hear a joke?”

Yoongi was clearly stunned by your sudden maneuver, but you didn’t wait for him to co-sign your antics. You cleared your throat like you were about to say something worth hearing, then you warbled, “Knock, knock!”

You expected him to pause again; or worse, to leave you hanging entirely. It was, frankly, stupid how much of an effect the latter always had on you. You were a demented scientist and your bad joke was a litmus test, ready to reveal on the front-end what kind of person Yoongi really was.

Translation: Tell me now if I’m too much. I’m always too much.

“Who’s there?”

He didn’t hesitate. There was no blink of an eye, no breath taken in between your call and his response. This time, it was you who needed a split-second to buffer.

When your brain finally reloaded, you peeped, “Cargo.”

“Cargo who?” Yoongi asked slowly, growing visibly suspicious about where this stupid, stupid road was leading. Somehow, he looked as amused by you as he did continually bewildered.

Springing the trap, you accentuated your shitty punchline with a sing-song tone and pantomime for emphasis, “Car go beep beep!”

Nobody had ever — ever — looked at you the way Yoongi did when you concluded your comedy routine. As if your teary-eyed grin and raucous laughter were something beautiful; and your presence alone wasn’t killing off one, sorry brain cell for every minute that passed.

“Knock, knock,” Yoongi volleyed with a soft chuckle, and without breaking eye contact.

As if you weren’t too much.

Yoongi needed a minute to take inventory.

When he left his apartment at a quarter-til-eight, he was headed out for his first date in a long damn time. It was Seokjin’s setup and that girl’s letdown. For Yoongi, it was another drop in the bucket; one final reason to commit to life as a hermit.

Troll that he was, Yoongi was ready to crawl back under his bridge; emerging only to pose impossible riddles to passersby who didn’t know to stay away.

His brain had given him an out, but for once, he didn’t take it. So, what did he end up with instead?

You, sitting on the bar, going shot-for-shot with him; and telling your self-titled villain origin story with award-worthy narration.

Equally as enthralling as the story itself was the tangential webs you weaved along the way. As he’d already learned to expect, you apologized frequently for the way one thought trailed off in a direction you didn’t intend. He wished you didn’t; he had no trouble following wherever your mind led you.

You, born here but not raised here, returning to claim a master’s degree in photography and to reclaim what you felt you missed out on. Yoongi loved your foreign take on local foods, even if you hadn’t yet acquired a taste for pickled vegetables.

We’ll get you there, he’d promised.

You, gesturing with hand movements so impassioned they nearly knocked you off balance; right off the bar. He was down to listen to you talk about whatever — for any amount of time — because he could feel how much you cared about — well, everything.

Animated, fully alive, and so fucking refreshing.

Him, with one hand on his drink and the other hovering on the bar top near your hip — just in case your full-body laugh did, in fact, provoke a fall.

Yoongi, who do you think you’re fooling?

So, maybe it was never exclusively about concern for your safety — even though you’d demonstrated from the jump that it was warranted. Yoongi was quickly coming to realize that, when it came down to it, he simply liked having you close. He liked you, full stop.

Every now and then, you’d wiggle where you sat, and the denim of your jeans would brush against his knuckles. It was as innocent as contact could be, but for someone so secretly touch-starved, it was bliss. Is this the kind of feeling he gave up, locked away in his tower? It sure as shit made leaving feel worth it.

He was buzzed, sure, but not drunk enough to blame the warmth he was feeling on the liquor. Any flush on his cheeks would only be partly genetic. The rest of it was all you — and the way you talked with your whole body, and that giggle.

Seriously, what the fuck is that giggle? A wind-chime made out of stars?

“Yoongi?”

It didn’t dawn on him that he was staring until you called his name. Then, it dawned on him that he didn’t care if he’d been caught — not even a little bit. Red-handed, all Yoongi could do was smile up at you as you blinked down at him.

He’d thought it before and now he was thinking it again: You are goddamn delight.

You threw your head back and laughed. Maybe it was the soju, or how fucking obvious he made it that he was infatuated with you. Whatever the cause, the effect was music to his ears. He’d record it, if he could, and play it on loop to appease the butterflies going wild in his stomach.

Unfortunately, he was accurate in his prediction. The sudden movement of your laughter sent you reeling, but before you could fall, Yoongi was quick to intervene. He stood abruptly from his stool to secure you; one hand on your hip and the other — unintentionally — on your thigh.

“Shit — Sorry,” Yoongi muttered, though he was very much still holding you. Oh, fuck, his brain screamed as he glanced down at his hand on your thigh. Heart pounding, his gaze flitted from his touch to your face.

Your mouth was still slightly open, but that could’ve easily been attributed to the fact that you’d so narrowly avoided launching yourself headfirst at the ground. If it wasn’t that, then you were looking for the words to yell to get him to back off.

Those were the only possible explanations; and any minute now, his hand would accept his brain’s signal to pull away.

Any minute now. Any —

Yoongi watched it all happen in slow motion and he still couldn’t believe it when you leaned in. Or when your hair slipped over your shoulder and brushed against his. Or when you kissed him quick and pulled back just to smile from mere centimeters away.

“Impressive reflexes.” You were breathless but you still managed to sigh. Have you had freckles this whole time? “What’s that saying? Not all heroes wear Lewis Leathers?”

Your playful tug at his jacket had no force behind it, but even with his feet firmly planted, Yoongi knew that he was falling. His stomach fluttered from the pinnacle of that emotional rollercoaster and, for once, he wasn’t afraid of heights. He’d kiss you again and follow that thrill all the way down.

Or, he would have, if the bell above the door didn’t chime.

Just as quickly as you’d kissed him, you spun around and prepared to dismount from your perch on the bar. Yoongi’s hand still seemed to vibrate, even when you slipped out from underneath. It was absolutely ridiculous that his body missed you already — automatically — but he couldn’t think of any other explanation.

He wasn’t a violent person by any means, but he was suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to throw the incoming patron out on their ass and lock the door behind them.

The audacity. Who does this clown think they are, coming into a place of business during their business hours? For fuck’s —

“Finally!” You squeaked as you stuck your landing. Then, you skipped around the edge of the bar and continued on your way towards the door.

Jesus Christ. Even the way you walk is cute.

Yoongi was initially too preoccupied with watching you to notice the intruder, but when he did, he couldn’t force the exasperated look off his face. That is, until he saw the panicked look on the prepubescent face of the delivery boy.

The poor kid’s eyes bugged out at Yoongi from under the brim of his uniform cap. Immediately, Yoongi felt inclined to atone, to bow. Instead, he offered a mildly apologetic grimace for the heart attack he didn’t mean to cause.

You accepted the bags of food into your arms, beaming like the fucking sun as you glanced over your shoulder to Yoongi. “You said you liked Hongdae Dakgalbi, right?”

Yes. Yes, he did. But his brain was spinning its wheels in the mud because —

What he finally said wasn’t a question, but it certainly sounded like one: “You ordered food.”

Clearly, Yoongi was missing something. He glanced around and confirmed that there was, in fact, an operational kitchen still situated at the far end of the room. He pointed to the small window carved out for taking and producing orders. “What about —?”

“Binna called off,” you shrugged through your explanation. Then, you tilted your head with a coy smile, “Were we supposed to starve?”

Yoongi had questions. A lot of them.

First and foremost: When did you summon takeout and how did you manage to go unnoticed in the process? He was certainly staring at you for long enough to catch it. Or maybe his heart-eyes were getting foggy with age.

Also, we? As in, you ordered food with the intention of sharing it with him? And you paid for it?

When his broken brain snapped back to attention, it registered the fact that you’d settled on top of the stool next to his. You either didn’t notice the smoke flying out of Yoongi’s ears, or you accepted his brain damage for what it was. Either way, you were too excited about the piping hot tteokbokki in front of you to notice the way he still lingered by the door.

The delivery boy was long gone by now; he took the first opportunity to get as much distance between himself and the visibly annoyed person he’d interrupted. Looking at it now, Yoongi’s fingers twitched with a desire to engage the deadbolt. But he didn’t — he, a coward, wouldn’t — so he simply reclaimed the spot next to you.

You immediately held up a pair of chopsticks as you fished out napkins with your other hand. Yoongi stared at them for too long, prompting you to look quizzically up at him. You asked no questions, and he couldn’t think of a single reason why he said it, but he blurted out:

“I’m supposed to be on a date.”

Unfazed by the lack of context, you gently tucked that pair of chopsticks into his useless hand. Yoongi blinked down at them like he didn’t know what to do with them. You went back to unpacking your takeout.

“And I’m supposed to be working,” You chirped, as if what he just said — unprompted — wasn’t completely idiotic. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Yoongi shook his head, praying it would knock his trapped thoughts loose. “I meant that I was supposed to be the one buying dinner.” He frowned down at the spread you’d provided. “If I knew you were hungry, I would’ve —“

“Taken a bite by now?” You teased with wiggling eyebrows. “Come on, Min Yoongi, you know the rules. The eldest eats first.”

Stunned wasn’t adequate. Entranced? His mouth hung open, primed to speak, without a single, coherent response on the horizon. Mystified, at the very least. You were always one step ahead of Yoongi, dancing off in a brand new direction.

How on Earth did you do it so easily? How were you so effortlessly bold when he couldn’t even blink without deliberating over the idea for days?

Yoongi wasn’t even jealous the way he would’ve expected to be, meeting his non-neurotic foil. He didn’t want to steal that spark for himself, or try to mimic your fearlessness. If he could just continue to witness it, that would be enough.

You threw him off again when you plucked a small piece of tteokbokki from one of the cardboard containers below and gently maneuvered it into his unwitting, waiting mouth.

Game over. Min Yoongi is done for.

“There we go,” You cooed with a smirk. Then, those chopsticks grabbed a piece of tteokbokki of your very own. You smiled adoringly down at it, winked up at him, and said, “Now we’re off to the races.”

After several minutes of deeply contented, quiet chewing, you turned slightly to gaze at him. You didn’t say anything at first; you simply watched and let your lips curve slightly into an understated smile. Yoongi didn’t care if that was all you did because — for once — he felt seen.

Eventually, you did speak. Your voice was soft, barely casting a ripple through the silence. “Can I ask?”

Your eyes scanned over his face for permission. Yoongi had no idea what your question was, but he doubted that he was capable of saying no to you. Fire at will.

“About the date you’re not on,” You clarified.

The one I was supposed to be on, or the one I might be on instead?

“Why aren’t you on it?”

He didn’t know how to explain any of it without sounding pathetic. He knew he’d rather die than have to relay his earlier misfortune to Seokjin; somehow, though, Yoongi didn’t hesitate to respond to you. Like everything else about the past few hours, it felt laughably easy.

“She’s a friend of a friend,” He began as soon as he wiped excess gochujang from the corner of his mouth.

“He basically harassed me into asking her out because I, uh — I don’t get out much. And I know a lot of people say that, but I really do mean it. You can probably guess as much from my frighteningly translucent complexion.”

Your mouth hitched up at the corner when he joked, but you didn’t laugh. In some odd way, he was grateful that you didn’t — not just because you didn’t enable his self-depreciation, but because you seemed too invested in what he was saying to interrupt him.

Nobody had ever looked at him quite like that before.

He cleared his throat, then he pressed on, “So, I did — and that part was fine. After that, though, I don’t think I slept at all. For, like, days. Now, I think I was just dreading the whole thing, but while it was happening, I figured I was nervous. Rusty, you know?”

Yoongi looked down at his hands, which fidgeted autonomously with his chopsticks. “I put way too much thought into the whole thing — I always do — even though I had this feeling that nothing was going to happen the way I planned.”

He paused, poked mindlessly at a lump of rice, and exhaled a breath he hadn’t intentionally held. Nothing had happened the way he planned, but if it did, who would’ve hand-fed him tteokbokki because they were too impatient to wait?

You dropped your chin in your hand as you continued to watch him. Wordlessly, you reached out with your other hand. Yoongi noticed just in time as you gently removed a piece of lint that had stuck to the tip of his jacket collar. Your eyes followed it as it floated off towards the floor.

Yoongi couldn’t see anything but you.

“You picked this place,” you murmured. Slowly, your eyes drifted back up to his face; he froze solid. The only thing moving was the pounding heart in his chest. “Must mean a lot to you.”

He wanted to be brave and tell you that it meant even more now. He wasn’t brave, though, so he swallowed that thought down with a mouthful of soju.

“She was not a fan, as it turns out. Hated it so much, just from the sidewalk, that she jumped right back in her taxi — yelled at me through the window that she deserved better than to drink bottom-shelf liquor in a dumpster with me.”

You furrowed your eyebrows and he wondered which part of that statement bothered you the most. Having your place of employment referred to as a dumpster would be a reasonable sore spot; one he probably should’ve avoided. Fuck. Could he rewind thirty seconds and omit that part?

“Well,” you frowned, “Joke’s on her. This dumpster has exactly one bottle on its top shelf, and it was apparently reserved just for you.”

He could kiss you. He really, really could.

You shifted on your stool, though, and stared out into the middle-distance at nothing in particular. Deep in thought, too, judging by the way your frown curved even further.

“It’s kind of funny, in a shitty sort of way. She more or less told you that you’re not enough, and people love to tell me that I’m too much.”

It was Yoongi’s turn to frown. Who in their right mind could look at you, experience the goddamn magnet that you are, and willingly detach themselves from you? The thought alone made his jaw clench.

There hadn’t been a single second since he met you — albeit, not that long ago — where he didn’t want to see and know more of you. Where he didn’t beg those seconds to slow the fuck down because the night kept moving faster than he wanted it to.

So far, no amount of time felt like enough.

“You’d think it would be nice, being everyone’s favorite new toy,” You laughed, to Yoongi’s surprise.

Looking genuinely amused, you glanced over your shoulder at him. “And I guess, for a minute, it really is. You do your silly song and dance; and everyone loves you — until they don’t anymore. Eventually, your tricks get boring; you burn them out; then they take out your batteries. You get shelved pretty quickly.”

There was a flicker of genuine hurt in your eyes, but you were smiling when you picked your glass up off the bar and raised it. “To always being the wrong amount!” You giggled.

“Nah.” Yoongi shook his head. He grabbed his drink, touched his glass to yours, and winked, “To being just right.”

One way or another, you spent most nights watching the clock, holding your breath, and waiting for midnight.

On New Year’s Eve, it was hope that bloomed bright in your chest like fireworks. When those final seconds dissolved, it meant closing one chapter and opening another. Something bigger, something better, something blank for you to fill in. A year in fresh white paper, with every color at your disposal.

Ten — nine —

For the rest of your midnights, it was relief that finally allowed you to unclench your jaw and drop your stiff shoulders. Closing time. Freedom to clean up, clear out, and drag your tired, little body back up to your apartment.

Thankfully, when your work hours were over, there were only three flights of stairs separating you from your bed, your cat, and your Netflix subscription.

Eight — seven —

Tonight was an outlier, a statistical anomaly. As the short hand inched closer and closer to twelve, your pulse picked up its pace. For once, it wasn’t relief and it certainly wasn’t hope. It was distinctively dread forming a pit in your stomach.

Even more than that, it was a telepathic plea shooting out from your brain that begged, and begged, and begged for more time. Five more minutes, just five more minutes.

Six — five —

You felt stupid, of course, because you knew that neither of you would turn into a pumpkin when the clock struck midnight. There was no spell, just two strangers who happened to be in the same bar at the same time, with bad jokes and a bottle of Tanqueray.

No bomb would detonate, no one would drop dead. When it was over, you’d simply go home, and Yoongi would go home and then…

Four —

That “and then what?” had you frantic. What if this moment ended and nothing followed? What if the magic didn’t survive the night?

You couldn’t take that disappointment; you knew that much. Gripping tight to your last first night, you tore your eyes away from the clock and looked at Yoongi.

He didn’t notice you staring because he had also become fixated on the clock ahead. His brow furrowed just slightly as he observed it, and you wondered what it meant.

Three —

You knew what you hoped it meant.

For all you knew, though, he might’ve been begging that hand to move faster. The end all, be all of justifications to say goodnight and go. To drop the moment in the bin with the spent, citrus garnishes on the way out; and then crawl back into that bed he spoke so fondly of.

The way you did whenever four zeroes lined up in a row like cartoon cherries on a slot machine. A personal jackpot any other midnight, but the farthest thing from a prize now.

Two —

No. You refused to believe that.

In the reality you’d chosen, he was strapped into that rollercoaster car beside you. He felt his stomach flip the way yours did as you stared down at the path ahead. You didn’t know how you knew it, but you were sure that you weren’t up there alone.

So, when the countdown was over, you took a deep breath and stated, “I’m calling a time-out.”

In actuality, it was more than a statement. It was a shout and it startled him so badly that he flinched.

As soon as he resettled on his stool, Yoongi’s neck could’ve snapped with how quickly he turned to look at you. His eyes were wider than you’d seen them at any point in the last four hours. Those once-knitted brows shot up to kiss the blonde strands brushing against his forehead.

You envied them, as stupid as that was.

“You’re — what?” He peeped.

Even louder than before, you blurted out your explanation. “I’m stopping the clock!”

You might’ve been the sole American in the entire neighborhood, but you could guarantee that you still knew less about football than Yoongi did. Knowing all of that didn’t stop you from making your worst attempt at a metaphor, or throwing your hand out to mime your way through it.

“Flag on the play — or whatever, I don’t know.”

At first, his expression didn’t change and you began to panic. Maybe you could duck down behind the bar and he’d eventually forget that you were hiding there. Then he wouldn’t see how pink your cheeks were; how the hope in your eyes bordered on desperate.

Shockingly, you weren’t delusional. You’d simply underestimated him.

Yoongi glanced down at his watch — already two minutes into Sunday — and then back to you. “Wow. Would you look at that? Only a minute til midnight.”

You could kiss him; you really, really could.

“Do you want to, uh, hang out? With me? Like, not here?”

Yoongi was smirking slightly at your stammering, just enough for you to notice, but you didn’t faint the way your body wanted you to. Instead, you doubled down.

“I live in the apartment upstairs, and this isn’t a proposition — it’s also not, not a proposition — but I need to lock-up here, and I still want you with me when I’m done.”

He blinked rapidly like you’d once again shook him off your tail. You watched in slow motion as his smirk dropped, and his brows dipped back into thoughtful wrinkles at the lowest part of his forehead. It hurt, physically somehow, that there was something to consider.

Were you really this egregiously wrong in your conclusions, or had he finally hit his quota with you and decided that you — this — were too much, too soon?

You wanted to explain yourself, to say that you were just offering for him to come up and sit on your couch with you. Because you wanted to keep this night alive and keep talking for as long as you could. Because this was something and you knew it.

You opened your mouth to do so, but he was the quicker draw.

Yoongi looked genuinely conflicted and you believed him when he said, “I don’t think I can. I have to be up in four hours to —”

“It’s okay!” You chirped. Stupid little bird, flying headlong into a window. You smiled and prayed it looked genuine, but Yoongi didn’t look convinced. Still, you breezed, “Raincheck, then — maybe.”

Maybe when you take the trash out later, you can heave yourself into the dumpster with it.

Deciding that your disappointment shouldn’t be his burden, you grabbed the takeout containers from the counter and whisked yourself over to the trash bin to discard them.

In a magnificent showing of restraint, you didn’t stuff yourself inside it, too. Instead, your tidy tornado kept spinning, picking up every glass you encountered and shoving them hurriedly into the dishwasher below the bar.

Are you suddenly Employee of the Month? Why is this the moment you choose to actually do your job?

With your hip, you nudged the dishwasher door closed much more clumsily than usual. Then, you began wiping down the counter at warp speed; damn near scrubbing a hole straight though the wood.

Why are you so frazzled? Are you really this sensitive after being politely turned down by someone you just met? This is what they mean when they say you’re “too much,” and you know what? They’re right.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Yoongi asked because he was lovely.

You were, as it turned out, as bad an actor as you were a bartender. Your reassuring smile was more unsettling than anything else, but you hoped that — maybe — the shake of your head was enough to dispel the concern from his face.

In case it wasn’t, you quipped, “You’ve already done more than your fair share of cleaning tonight, I think. Thanks again for that, by the way. I ran out bandages, so…”

Your sentence petered out when you finally looked up and locked eyes with Yoongi. His expression was indecipherable and, only for a moment, it made your hurried hands stop moving.

“So, I’m glad you came in,” You finished through an exhale, quiet to the point that it was hardly audible. You hoped he heard you, though, as loudly and clearly as you meant it.

Straightening up, you dropped your bar rag into the “dirty shit” bucket underneath the counter. You quickly wiped your hands against your jeans, laughed with no real joy behind it, and hid your wobbling voice behind a poorly imitated French accent, “Et voilà.”

Yoongi was still staring, still unreadable. For a few moments, you simply looked at one another. Neither one of you made a sound — at least, nobody spoke. There were gears grinding in his head, judging by the look on his face, and you swore you could hear them from across the bar.

“I guess I should — um,” Yoongi eventually muttered as he gestured to the door. He briefly glanced at it, but you doubted that he registered what he was looking at.

Oddly, it wasn’t awkwardness that seemed to have him short-circuiting — not as far as you could tell. It was like his brain was moving faster than it could form words, leaving his mouth open with nothing to say.

You nodded. You knew where he was going with this, and you didn’t want to prolong whatever he was so visibly toiling with.

“Yeah, of course,” You squeaked. Somewhere, the world’s tiniest violin began to play as the corner of your mouth hitched up. “I’ll see you around, I hope?”

Then, Yoongi’s gaze dropped to the phone in his hand. If he heard your question, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, deep in thought, he mumbled, “I need to — fuck, okay —” Urgently, he looked back up at you and said firmly, “I’ll call.”

He dashed out the door before you realized the problem with his plan: he had no way to call you.

You’d been so caught up in each other that you never thought to exchange phone numbers. Not only was he now gone, but he hadn’t actually said goodbye.

Seems kind of fitting that yours is the only fairytale without a happy ending, huh?

You occupied the borderline between being a hopeless romantic and a masochist, so you immediately decided that, if you ran, you might catch him before he was truly gone.

Kiss him or kick him, it didn’t matter — you just couldn’t let it end like this.

You skirted around the bar and darted to the door, throwing it open and shocking the bell above it. You were already out on the sidewalk before it had the chance to chime. It was the only sound, and it echoed through otherwise dead air.

Similarly, you were the only person on the street. Judging by the dark windows lining the road, you were the only proof of life in that little corner of Seoul. The lack of visible stars was likely due to light pollution, but you wouldn’t be surprised if they dipped out on you, too.

No matter how many times you looked up and down the street, Yoongi didn’t appear. So, you closed your eyes like an idiot, and wished on a star you couldn’t see that he’d be there when you re-opened them. Standing on the other side of the street, laughing, and asking how you’d missed him on your thirty previous scans.

But he wasn’t.

Yoongi had disappeared like smoke right through your fingers; exiting your night as abruptly as he’d entered it.

You weren’t inclined to stand on the sidewalk all night, stunned by your complete failure to see the plot for what it was. You slipped from the sidewalk, through the front door, and locked it behind you. And once you did, you stood there with your hand on the deadbolt for several moments — just in case.

When no one came to knock, you turned all the lights out and flipped the sign in the front window from open to closed. From there, you made your way to the back of the storage room. Finally reaching the stairwell door in the far corner, you unlocked it slowly like the wait would make a difference.

As you climbed the three flights to your apartment’s entrance, the night’s events formed a whirlpool in your mind. The playback settled it: there was simply no way that you were this wrong — not about this.

Clearly, you weren’t clairvoyant to the extent that Yoongi seemed to be. You hadn’t seen it coming when you nearly fell backwards off the bar, but he did. He’d kept his hand close all night like he sensed you’d need it. Just like he sensed every rock, paper, and scissor.

Even still, it felt like a premonition every time you turned to look at him at the same time he did; and you couldn’t put a finger on it.

That something was more than simply chatting with a person stuck in your close proximity — more than commiserating and drinking simultaneously. That was the nature of your job: circumstantial friendship. Not uncommon, not designed to last beyond last call.

This, though? Cosmic interfere or craziness, maybe, but not nothing. You weren’t superstitious and you didn’t necessarily believe in fate, but the odds of all of this had to be shockingly low.

It felt cinematic, in a way, or straight out of a dream. You would have believed it either way if the pinch of your fingers on your forearm didn’t debunk both theories. It was all too perfectly timed to be a coincidence, though, you knew that much.

Out of all the nights you’d worked at this bar — and all the years he’d been a customer — this was the one time your paths had crossed. And when they finally did, he found you right when you needed him. The same, you hoped, could be said for him.

Too Much meeting Not Enough, proving perfect balance. It was just right, but the ending didn’t fit.

Sure, he knew where to find you — but that was assuming he wanted to. With his quick and wordless departure, your confidence in that assumption wavered as you unlocked your apartment door and stepped inside.

The ball’s over, Cinderella. Sorry about your shoe.

When his third call went to voicemail, Yoongi was ready to launch his phone down the alley.  

There was no fucking way that Seokjin — of all people — was asleep already. This could not be the night that he turned off whatever game he was playing and went to bed at a reasonable hour. Seokjin was rarely reasonable. As it turned out, he wasn’t reachable, either. 

Yoongi growled, kicking the nearby dumpster. He thought that some explosion of physical activity might take the focus off his anxiety, but it didn’t — it just made his foot hurt. 

“Fuck!”

He didn’t even want to make the plans he was now trying desperately to reschedule. He didn’t like fishing; he liked his friend, and his friend liked fishing. So, Yoongi agreed to share the cost of renting a boat that he would have to leave at five o’clock in the morning to catch.

If it's 00:17 now, I have three hours and forty-three minutes until —

The unexpected chiming of his phone stopped Yoongi’s pacing before he could wear a trench into the concrete. “Finally!” 

“Do you always yell at people instead of greeting them?” Seokjin scoffed. As expected, Yoongi could hear some sort of video game blaring in the background.

Typical.

“Hyung, I’m so sorry, but I'm not going to make it back in time. Can we re-schedule this fishing thing?”

Yoongi felt awful for having to ask in the first place, but he felt even worse as he anticipated Seokjin’s reaction. Yoongi swallowed disappointment and stewed in it. Seokjin was quite the opposite, and Yoongi didn’t want to ruin his night. 

To Yoongi’s surprise, he did not get yelled at the way he expected to. Instead, he got Seokjin’s juvenile, sing-song voice directed right into his ear, “Ooh, staying with Hyunjoo, are we?” 

Yoongi, having completely lost the plot, paused for a moment before asking, “Who?” 

“What?” 

Oh, fuck, was that her name? It’d slid out of his brain the second that abuse slid out of her mouth.

Quick to avoid that conversation, Yoongi sputtered, “I’ll give you the story tomorrow, hyung, but I really need to go. Can we push the fishing thing to another day?"

“Oh, I forgot to book the boat, so don’t worry about it!” Seokjin cheered and Yoongi was this close to following through with chucking his phone like a grenade. “Have fun with —” 

Not inclined to wait another second, Yoongi hung up and turned to sprint up the alley towards the bar’s entrance. When he reached it and found the lights out, he skidded to a stop so forcefully that he almost fell over. What the fuck? He tugged at the door handle just to make sure he wasn’t missing something. 

Didn’t he tell you he was going to make a phone call? 

Fuck! He'd said I'll call. He didn't say that he was going to call Seokjin, and he sure as shit hadn't clarified that he was going to do so right that second. There'd been no explanation, no “please wait because I promise I’m coming right back for you" — just a mad dash out the door to get rid of the only thing standing between him and more time with you. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

Yoongi never indulged in unadulterated rage because he decided a long time ago that it took more effort than it was worth. In that moment, though, he felt the overwhelming urge to punch himself right in the face. How did he fuck it all up this badly?

Instead, Yoongi scrubbed his hands over his face and begged his brain to figure out a better plan. He couldn’t just call you because he was too busy making googly eyes at you to ask for your number. He couldn’t pick the lock because it was illegal — and because he didn’t know how.

Unable to do anything else, Yoongi threw his head back with every intention of screaming at the sky. But before he could let his frustration rip out of his mouth, he saw it: his saving grace. 

Mere moments after he sprinted up the alley, Yoongi was tearing back down it like his life depended on it. The end of the iron emergency ladder sat too high off the ground for him to comfortably reach it, but — thankfully — he had garbage at his disposal. Without a second thought, he stacked whatever semi-sturdy trash he could find to bridge the gap between him and your fire escape. 

With all the strength and recklessness of a lovestruck teenager, Yoongi threw his twenty-four-year-old body upwards and grabbed hold of the nearest rung.

Maybe you overestimated that strength a little bit, eh, Yoongi?

He gritted his teeth and pulled himself up enough to swing a leg up, too. Groaning triumphantly, he hooked the bottom of his shoe on the lowest rung. 

From there, it was easy enough to reach the first landing. When it came time for Yoongi to tackle the other two, he picked up the pace — and he didn’t give a shit about how sore he’d be tomorrow. 

Finally, finally, finally, he reached his destination. Unfortunately, that fleeting moment of relief was replaced by fear as he stooped down to knock on your window. Staring back at him through the darkness was a pair of big, yellow eyes.

Yoongi shouted as he stumbled away from the window. He knocked over a planter on his way down, landing on his ass with a crash and a grunt. Adding insult to injury, that black cat looked positively smug as it stared down at him.  

It was quiet when you called out — in English — from another room. “Toph, did you break something? I thought we talked about this, bub." As your voice grew closer, you switched to Korean, "You can't ruin my stuff until you start contributing to this household.”

What's the incubation period for lovesickness?

Yoongi heard footsteps headed towards whatever room he’d failed to break and enter. He saw the light as it flicked on, and then he saw you — wearing a fluffy, tan headband with little, round ears at the top —with a bare face glistening as if you’d just finished tending to it.

Oh, fuck. Is lovesickness terminal? 

If your eyes opened any wider, they might’ve fallen right out of your skull. They would’ve landed where Yoongi did — in the mass grave of pepper sprouts he’d just outright annihilated. But they stayed beautiful where they belonged, and you simply gawked at each other. 

Yoongi spoke first despite not thinking first. “Toph? Like, Beifong?” 

Your shock gave way to the biggest, brightest smile and Yoongi was thankful it didn’t blind him. If it did, he would’ve missed the way your cheeks went pink to match the tips of your ears. Whatever the shade, it was his new favorite color.

Just bury me in this potting soil, doll. I'm dead. 

“Yoongi,” You started with a giggle that turned into a hum when you pursed your lips and tilted your head. Your eyes narrowed and then you asked, “Any reason why you chose the fire escape over the door?” 

The what? 

Sensing his confusion, you leaned out the window and pointed. Yoongi’s eyes followed the invisible line from your fingertip until they located an awning, which sat mere meters away from his impromptu stepstool made of trash.  

Inwardly, he winced. Outwardly, he turned to you with a lopsided smile. “I was checking out your little garden."

Yoongi cleared his throat, now wincing outwardly, “And, uh — then I killed it, a little bit. I promise I’ll replace everything as soon as the shops open. I am so —” 

“Cold? I bet,” You interrupted with a smirk, “Come inside then, Min Yoongi. Just don’t break the window too, alright?” 

You didn’t have to tell him twice.

Immediately, he was on his feet, furiously dusting potting soil off the back of his legs. When he suspected that he’d gotten it all, Yoongi turned around and glanced at you over his shoulder. Even without a question, you knew what he was asking; you signaled okay with your fingers and a giggle. 

With more care than he’d ever shown in his life, Yoongi crawled through the gap you created when you ducked back through the window. Once he had his feet underneath him again, he quickly toed off his shoes and plucked them off the tile.

As soon as he was upright again, you took his wrist in your hand — oh god, your skin is so criminally soft — and led him through your kitchen to the living room. 

Gently, you set his shoes down on the mat beside your front door. Then, you turned back around to gaze up at him. Looking at that face of yours, Yoongi forgot every word he’d ever learned. It was just his hammering heart beating in time with yours, until: 

“So, this is where I live.”

You were close enough that Yoongi could smell the toothpaste on your breath when you spoke, but still too far. You must’ve thought so, too, because you shifted your weight to your other foot and wound up slightly nearer to him. 

Yoongi hummed in reply, though he could barely hear it over his pulse pounding in his ears, “It’s nice.”

He didn’t actually know if that was the case because he’d spent every second so far staring at you, but he had faith that you’d prove him right.

More quiet, more anticipation disguised as quickening breaths.

Like a magnet, you drew him in. Yoongi echoed every tiny move you made towards him until the distance was gone; and he could feel the heat of your body mere centimeters from his.

This close, he could see flecks of gold in your irises that he hadn’t noticed before. Yoongi knew he shouldn't have been surprised. If he'd learned a single thing tonight it was that hidden treasures were par for the course with you.

“Yoongi.” 

It was baffling how you could sound so shy, even with desire blowing your pupils wide. Just as confounding was the fact that Yoongi knew, without question, that you felt it, too — that this new and perfect something was the start of everything.

“Please, just kiss me already.” 

That wasn’t an opportunity he’d ever expect to turn down. 

You were already breathless, weightless, and floating in fucking space when you finally crossed over the threshold into your bedroom.

Because, fuck, that man took your oxygen with him whenever his lips left yours. Without even trying, he’d fashioned himself into a ventilator that you really might suffocate without.  

Thankfully, whenever he pulled away, he didn’t stray far. Even as you both stumbled towards your unmade bed, tripping over obstacles — up to and including Toph, whose favorite spot was between your ankles — there was always one hand on your hip and another lacing fingers through your hair. 

As you moved, you couldn’t help thinking of the leftovers you’d brought home from work before. All single-use encounters, wastes of time that you normally didn’t care to recall. Though he may end up being the last, Yoongi wasn’t the first person to have you in this position.

He was, however, the only person to rescind his tongue just to comment on the tiny, design details of your shit-box apartment. 

“How did you —” He paused to moan into your mouth when your teeth gently claimed his bottom lip. “Find a place with — oh, fuck, you taste like spearmint – original crown-molding in this —” The back of his knees bumped into the edge of your mattress and suddenly, he was sitting. “Neighborhood?” 

There was no way you could ever explain Min Yoongi’s duality. He was unequivocally, fatally hot — and simultaneously, he was the most endearing, grandfatherly person you’d ever encountered. Somehow, this mind-boggling man turned architectural factoids into dirty talk.

You might orgasm on the spot if he brought up your built-ins, and you didn’t know or care what that said about you as a person. 

“I’ll show you the blueprints later if you want,” you giggled while Yoongi ‘s cheeks flushed. Before he could find a reason to feel embarrassed, you tilted his chin up in order to kiss him properly. As you did, you murmured against his lips, “But if you take those jeans off, there’s something else I’d like to show you first.” 

Your little finger was near to his throat as you held his chin captive, so you felt it when it when he growled. Against your knuckle, in your chest, and in that growing ache in between your thighs. There was roughness in him that you’d only seen snippets of, but you’d bet that you could pull it out if you tried.  

Maybe not now while you were both masking nerves, but eventually. 

When Yoongi made to stand, you backed up to give him room to do so. You were already on your knees when his belt came off, unbuttoning his jeans before the leather even hit the floor. As you pulled that zipper down — slowly and carefully — you glanced up at him from under your lashes and watched the breath catch in his chest. 

It wasn’t the first time you noticed how fucking beautiful he was; in fact, that thought had been looping through your mind all night. But there was something new in his expression as he observed you taking his cock into your hand.

Something reverent, like he believed he should be the one on their knees.

A few languid, kitten licks at the tip, and his eyelids fluttered. They screwed shut entirely as you ran the flat of your tongue along the vein underneath. When your mouth finally enveloped him fully, his head drooped backwards as he groaned. 

Your name would never sound better than it did exhaled from Yoongi’s chest. 

More often than not, fellatio felt like an obligation. A quid pro quo, you always figured, though none of them kept up their end of the deal. But with Yoongi buried in the wet heat of your mouth, it was a gift you might never get tired of giving. Every breathy moan and involuntary twitch felt like a prize — and still, neither came close to the way it felt when he looked at you. 

In those fleeting moments when he could focus, of course. 

“I’m fucking dreaming,” Yoongi groaned, bringing his hands up and scrubbing them over his face. “Shit. Perfect figment of my imagination, that’s the only explanation for you. Where the fuck have you been my whole life?” 

You hummed as you let him slip out of your mouth. In turn, it prompted a flurry of expletives to slip out of his. Tracing a feather-light line from hilt to head, you smirked up at him, “Waiting at a bar for you to show up, Min Yoongi. You sure did take your time.” 

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” He laughed, “I already plan to regret that for the next — I don't know — forever?”

He dropped his hands from over his eyes and held them out to you. “Come here, angel. You’re too far away.” 

As soon as you were back on your feet, Yoongi enveloped you in the warmth of his arms. You were halfway to melting when he kissed you; dead and gone when he laid you back against the mattress; and downright astral projecting when the weight of his body was added to yours.  

Not to be dramatic, but is heaven a place on Earth? 

With your head resting comfortably on the pillow, you gazed up at Yoongi as he addressed the tied waistband of your sweatpants. It wasn’t until that knot came undone that you realized: if he’d come home with you earlier — before you’d swapped out your street clothes for shapeless knits — he would’ve had a prettier present to unwrap.  

Lace over your hip bones instead of cotton briefs. A black, balconette bra that made your tits into something worth looking at; not lackluster bareness that barely registered under your paint-stained t-shirt.  

Unintentionally mimicking him, you covered your face with your hands to conceal the way you were blushing. You didn’t even dare to peek through your fingers at him while he dragged your sweatpants down over your legs.

That is, not until you heard the world’s softest chuckle and it hit you like a bus. 

“Pretty girl,” Yoongi hummed. He left a chaste kiss on the top of your left thigh, and you whimpered. So sweet, so brief that your skin still tingled when he moved to mirror that kiss on your right thigh. “Where’d you go, baby?” 

Baby.  

That settled it. Min Yoongi was trying to kill you.

Nobody kissed you that carefully, not ever. No man, no woman, no one in between or beyond spoke to you that softly; turned you to putty in their hands with gentleness alone. Not like he did.

You were going to love him — you already knew it — and that stupid, four-letter word just sealed your fate. There wasn’t a single thing that you could do to prevent it, even if you wanted to. So, your options were limited to one:

Leaning into the fall. 

You reached out with the hand that once covered your face and grabbed him by the shirt to pull him closer. Once he was within range, with the tip of his nose bumping into yours, you stared him dead in the eye and told him just how badly you needed him inside of you. 

It took no time at all for the two of you to cast aside what remained of your clothing. Hand-me-downs mingled with designer items that exceeded the cost of your rent, and you didn’t give a fuck. You discarded your inhibitions in that heap, too, sitting up on your knees as he rolled a condom down his length. 

Yoongi’s return to you was marked by his hands cupping your face. He kissed you until you were no longer breathless, until you felt the rush of air filling your lungs. You followed his lead back down to the mattress where he rested on his side; and without any need for instruction, you draped your right leg over his hip. 

It was the closet you’d been to him, but it still wasn’t close enough 

“Is this okay?” Yoongi broke the kiss just to look at you.  

The fondness in his eyes was competing with concern, but that didn’t surprise you. Considerate to a fault, he’d no doubt been thrown for a loop when you went from zero to one hundred in merely half a second. “I can —” 

Oh, I bet you can.  

But you couldn’t wait. Impatient, through and through — and thoroughly dripping — you shook your head.

Your hand left its place on his bare bicep and dipped down to wrap around his cock. There were two individual heartbeats hammering in sync as you guided him to your cunt, though it sounded a lot like one. 

“Like you said earlier,” You sighed as he pushed into you. “Just right.” 

Six years later...

tagging: @mgthecat @jihopesjoint @jaejoontrashpanda @taebaelove @cyanide-mustard @xjoonchildx @borahae-k @i-purple-buff-bunni @pamzn @myimaginationsrunningwild @nonbinary-demonbrat @yoongiphoria @sstarryoong @xcherrywaltz @btschimeyplanet @persphonesorchid @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @goodsoop @jkoofier (couldn't tag)

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likes are always appreciated, but it's feedback that means the most — whether that's in a comment below, PM, reblog, tags, etc. tysm for reading ✨

a/n: holy shit. just, holy shit. i've spent less time on literal thesis papers than i did on this. i'm so thankful for everyone who blew up darksided and blindsided — i really hope this provides context for how these two got together, and how tf they love each other that much. i will not apologize for the sexual cliffhanger because this smut wasn't going to be included, initially! this was going to end at the bar, lol.

also, this is an ode to those very special (very impermanent) nights with someone new that feel like perfect lifetimes in just the span of a few hours. in my experience, they never went anywhere (which i think made them more special, in hindsight) but i wanted to write a fic where things didn't stop there.

anyways, i'm very tired of writing words now, so please enjoy and let me know what you think 🫶🏻

#myg #min yoongi #yoongi #suga #bts #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts fluff #bts smut #yoongi fanfiction #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fic #yoongi fluff #yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi x y/n #min yoongi fluff #min yoongi smut #min yoongi x reader #min yoongi x you #min yoongi x y/n #re: darksided #re: blindsided #re: foresight #suga fluff #suga smut #bts suga #jade writes

[vodkabodies]

Invisible String

Summary: An endless search for a remedy comes to a halt when Harry realizes he’s been tied to it, to her, all along.

Pairing: Harry Styles x Musician gf

WC: 475

Warnings: If you're NOT a fan of romanticrry, this is not the post for you ;)

A/N: Can you tell I’m a sucker for fluff? Here’s a little ‘thank you’ for the love you’ve given over my previous post <3 This is a really short one but still, enjoy!

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You were there all along, hidden in plain sight. At award shows, at after parties, even at our mutual friend’s wedding ceremony. Sometimes I wonder, what took us so long, then? For years you were always just a friend of a friend, an artist under the same record label, and now you have your own mugs in my kitchen cabinet and a side on my bed that will always smell of you.

Whenever I get lost in my thoughts like this though, as if by instinct, a connection only you and I are tied to, a brush of your fingers through the curly strands of my hair always wipes the questions away. As I lay here, sulking in your gentle yawning and the scent of your shampoo, there wouldn't have been a more perfect time than now. Not seven years ago when you were getting out of a toxic relationship, and I from a boy group I’ve been in for years to pursue my own endeavours.

We were meant to cross paths, eventually. At the perfect place, and at the perfect time.

I was scheduled for a meeting the very night of your opening show. I ran into my good friend, your manager at the time, who was on his way to support you. At that very moment, I received a call that our meeting was postponed. He invited me to join him instead, and so I did. With no intentions of coincidentally meeting my twin flame that same evening.

Ever since then, it’s been you.

As if tied to an invisible string, distance from you started feeling like hell. Like being pulled by rip currents, away from the safety of the shore.

I started to fear that every song I'll ever write from that day onward would be about you. And how you snorted a laugh when my voice pathetically cracked the moment I introduced myself to you, your hands that fit perfectly in mine as you shook it, and that voice, the one that grew a bed of flowers over the barricades that disabled me from running directly to you, the same one that now hums me lullabies.

You are the cure to my sleepless nights, the remedy for my mundane days, and extra lonely drives. I, a hopeless romantic, an artist, the product of loving and losing, has fallen deeply in love with you in a way that only words can explain, and only lyrics can describe. 

I’ve written about finding no antidotes for curses, been convinced that loving someone else in the past was the cure, and thought another person had it all along. But it was you. Not a pill I could swallow, an action I could do, or something someone could possess. All along I was tied to the one I’ve spent lifetimes searching for.

“You are the antidote.”

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A/N: Hope you guys caught all the references I snuck in here. If you did, feel free to comment them below! I appreciate the support and feedback for my first work <3 More to come! (possibly a new fic??) As always, thank you for reading!

Twitter: @vodkabodies

#harry edward styles #harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfic #fineline #fanfic #harry styles x reader #harryshouse #fine line harry styles #harry styles x yn #harry styles x you #harry styles story #one shot #harry styles one shot #harry oneshot #one direction #harry styles sweet #harry styles imagine #harry imagine #harry drable #harry styles au #y/n #yn #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic rec #harry styles fluff

[thelightsandtheroses]

five: we'd only die of lonely secrets

Your Hand In Mine | Joel Miller x female reader.

Chapter Summary: Your relationship with Joel hits some challenges when something happens with Ellie. Meanwhile, Gabe has some questions for Sean. Word Count - 3466 Chapter Warnings - mentions of self-harm (Ellie burns herself to cover her bite as in canon and the reader discovers her afterwards), mentions of secrets, disagreements, discussion of a child’s parentage, reader is a single mum of a teenager, possibly warnings for implied cults, 18+ blog MDNI Notes: I’m sorry for the delay in updating  - this chapter marks a little change in the fic and some drama and angst is coming but it’s been planned for a very long time. I really hope you will stick with it! Chapter title is from the National song the System Only Dreams In Total Darkness

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Being with Joel feels like second nature.  It doesn’t move too fast or slow, your relationship feels like a natural progression. It’s inevitable and undeniable and it feels good. Really good.

In the weeks that have passed since you and Joel officially first got together, since you turned up at his house that night, you’ve grown stronger. Gabriel and Ellie know about you both now, people around Jackson have stopped gossiping as much about the two of you.

You’re taking things slowly; spending no more than one or two nights at each other’s a week, telling yourselves that it’s okay to slow down a bit now, that you have time. It doesn’t feel like you have time when you’re alone though; then it’s still desperate hands and lips and barely repressed moans.

You thought you knew what life in Jackson was for you now. Joel’s changed things.

The leaves in Wyoming are changing too; the foliage has become bright orange and  yellow. It’s a sign of their incoming death and decay but it’s beautiful. You can’t help but be taken in by the colours and vivid beauty of the state you now live in. In Kansas, the city was built up and you hardly saw surroundings like this. Even when the leaves are dying, they’re still more beautiful than barricades and blockades.

You carefully check your reflection in the hallway mirror as you zip up your jacket.

After several artfully rearranged dates, Joel and you have been instructed to have dinner with Maria and Tommy. It shouldn’t be stressful; they’re your friends after all, but they’re Joel’s family and this feels like a test of your emerging relationship.

“Really mum?” Gabriel asks, leaning on the banister and smirking at you. His hair is getting long and in his favourite hoodie he looks younger for a moment, more like the little boy you remember. Not that you can say that to his face.

“Whatever do you mean?” you ask in mock ignorance.

“You nervous?”

”Of course not.”

Gabriel raises an eyebrow at you. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve done the dinner with the family thing. It’s always been the other way around.”

“It’s Maria and Tommy,” he replies indignantly, shaking his head. “They were like, your friends before Joel even came here. Surely you’ve got the dibs here.”

“They’re his family.”

“They’re your friends.”

“I know. I’m relaxed, honest.” you reply, trying to hide your nerves as best as you can. You’re used to this being the other way around; to the dinners being with your family and this feels unfamiliar and daunting.

“So why are you wearing your best clothes?”

“Maybe, I just wanted to?”

“Uh-huh.” Your son shakes his head. “Well, hope you have fun anyway.”

“Thanks, sweetie.”

You hear a knock at the door and Gabe raises his eyebrows at you, not moving from his position on the stairs and instead sitting down on a stair with a sly smirk.

You open the door and smile widely at Joel. He’s wearing a deep blue chambray shirt and jean. You can’t help but notice how suspiciously clean his boots are too.

“Well look at you,” you say as he steps into the hallway.

“Hi,” he replies, nodding his head at Gabe as well. “Hey, Gabe.”

“Hey,” Gabe replies as he observes Joel, carefully looking him over as well. “Not you as well,” he mumbles which cause you burst out laughing as Joel looks at you in confusion.

“Don’t ask,” you say, grateful for a sudden distraction as Beau steps out from the kitchen, nodding at Joel in greeting.

“You on patrol tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yeah, Tommy and I got roped into an extra shift. Well, Tommy did and he signed me up.”

“Gotta love family for that,” Beau says with a laugh.

“Tell me about it,” Joel replies, shaking his head and raising his hands in the universal ‘what can do you do’ pose.

“Why are there extra shifts?” your son asks.

“Signs of infected, or … signs we ought to be a little more vigilant with our patrols for a couple of days,” Beau says and looking at your son’s face, quickly adds, “We’re not adding extra patrols for people in school, not right now. It’s just a precaution.” Joel looks at your face briefly and then back at Beau.

“Oh, okay.” You wish your son didn’t sound disappointed at the prospect of not being needed on additional patrols. He’s growing too quickly; in your mind he’s still this tiny baby you could hold with one hand and now he’s a man, creeping ever closer to adulthood by the minute.

“Right, we should head out.” You make your way over to Gabriel, briefly hugging him despite his falsified reluctance. “Love you,” you say in a quiet voice so the others can’t hear and squeezing him one last time before stepping away.

When you step outside your house, Joel clasps your hand, pulling you close to him on the porch.

He kisses you tenderly, wrapping one arm around you before you both head towards Tommy and Maria’s.

“You look real pretty today,” he says, emphasising the southern drawl that lingers in his voice. There’s mischief and desire and something else in his eyes. You’ve taken in the details on his face and committed them to your heart now. Each freckle, sunspot or scar has been logged over nights and mornings and stolen moments.

“You’re not too bad yourself,” you reply, leaning into his touch. “We could change our mind -”

“Head to the bench?”

“Or yours. Either works for me.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m just saying that we have an evening to ourselves and maybe we could do something else.”

“It sounds like an option. Probably for the best, Tommy’s really only good with a barbecue. Lived off our leftovers or takeout back in the day.”

“So you were the cook?”

Joel flushes. “I wouldn’t go that far. I - Sarah cooked too. I worked a lot.“

“Oh yeah?” you ask casually. You only learnt about Sarah recently under similar circumstances, a quick slip of the tongue, a panicked expression and then a brief confession. Joel’s experienced a loss you never want to truly understand, but one you need to try and empathise with.  “You were a contractor, right?”

Joel raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Ellie told you that?”

“Oh, yeah. Ellie was extremely proud to tell me about you being a contractor Before. She seems to think it was a real popular job back then.”

Joel looks down, stifling a laugh. “I mean - you can’t argue it’s not better than being a politician, right?”

You smirk. ”Only just.”

Joel squeezes your shoulder tighter as you approach Tommy and Maria’s. “I’ll remember that,” he teases. “For that, we’re definitely not skipping dinner.”

“Did I ever tell you how much I respect the art of carpentry, and spirit levels and building stuff? Fixing stuff?”

Joel cocks an eyebrow. “Uh huh. Spirit levels, really?”

“I didn’t hang around a lot of construction sites.”

“Good thing too. Right, let’s get this thing over with so I can get you back to mine.”

“Why Mr Miller, anyone would think you have plans for me.”

Joel smirks wickedly. “You’ll have to find out,” he whispers, kissing you briefly on the lips before knocking on Tommy’s door.

The sun is still rising as you approach the back porch of your home the following morning. The town is lit in a rosy glow; everything is softer, more mellow.

“I’m sick of feeling like she’s keeping secrets from me is all,” Gabe says, kicking the edge of the porch half-heartedly.

“She’s your mum, that’s just - that’s just being a parent. I don’t - I don’t think there’s any big secrets.” You steel yourself for a blow that never comes, for Sean to add something.

“But she never talks about him. I don’t know anything. You don’t say anything either, neither does Uncle Beau. No one talks about it.”

“I know. It’s - it was a difficult time, Gabe, none of us want to go back to then.”

“It’s not like when it had just happened - you know, you can’t just say that, Uncle Sean. I only want to know something - I want to feel like there’s not just this question mark over who my dad was. I know what happened to him and I know loads of kids who had the same thing happen but their parents tell them about the other one, they have photos or memories they talk about,” Gabe pauses and adds, “I want to feel like I had a dad. I’ve never ever seen a photograph of him. Do I even look like him? I know it upsets mum to talk about it. That’s why I’ve come to you.”

You can feel the tears building in your eyes, the stabbing ache in your stomach at your son’s words, at his plaintive desperate voice. What have you done? What are you continuing to do?

There’s a silence as you try and work out if you should intervene, if you should say something and join this conversation or if you’d only make things worse.

“I was there when you were born,” Sean says in a low voice that you can hardly hear.

“What?”

“I helped deliver you,” he says and you watch the way he puts a hand on Gabe’s back as your son sits next to him. 

“I did not need to know that. I get it, okay. I know you and Uncle Beau - but that’s not the point.”

“I know it’s not, but I’ve been there for every milestone of your life. So’s your Uncle Beau. You have never been without love for a second. Your mum would do anything for you. She’s our family, you are our family. It might not feel enough, but it’s the best I can give you. I’m sorry you didn’t get to have a dad with you growing up, but you got me and Uncle Beau and that’s like double what most kids get.”

“Really? That’s your argument here?”

“It worked when you were seven.”

You hear the snort of laughter.

”Mum seems happier,” he says, ”She really likes Joel, I can tell.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“It’s a good thing. She’s - she deserves to be happy too. That’s why we all came here, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Joel seems decent enough and I like him better than her ex already.”

“What an endorsement,” Sean says with a laugh.

“Whatever, I’m heading inside.”

“Okay.”

You watch your son head back inside and after a moment dare to step forward. A twig snaps under your feet and Sean instantly looks alert, his hands poised by his jeans pocket. 

“It’s you,” he says as you approach. “Shit, how much did you hear?” Sean asks.

“Enough.” You lean your head back and sigh. “Thank you.”

“He’s not stopping, sweetie, he’s a clever kid. He knows we’re keeping something back.”

”I don’t get it.”

“I do. If I was keeping something from you, would you keep asking or let it go?”

“That’s-”

“He’s your kid for sure.”

“So, what it’s my fault for not talking about him enough?”

“I think we didn’t mean to, but we’ve made him realise there’s more to the story and so of course, he won’t let that go.”

“So what do I do?”

“We could -”

“That’s not an option,” you say firmly, arms folded. “We swore we’d never tell him about The Junction.”

“Well, that was when he was five and still fucking believed in the tooth fairy. I just think - maybe, I get it, I so get it, but maybe we’ve made it worse by not talking about it. About any of it.” Sean looks sad for a moment. “We put those years in a box, but they still happened.”

“We’ll figure something out, won’t we?” You feel so small all of a sudden; every moment of confidence, of happiness in the dinner at Tommy and Maria’s, your night with Joel has evaporated. You hug your arms around yourself and look up at the stars.

“Of course we will,” Sean says. ”So, uh, tell me about the dinner.“

You sit next to him and lean your head on his shoulder before you start to talk to your best friend.

You can’t remember if Joel’s due back from his day’s work yet. Him and Tommy were out on that extra patrol because there had been reports of potential infected or raiders nearby. You thought it might be good to

You hear a faint cry and muffled scream from somewhere in the house.

Ellie.

It’s automatic and primal, your instincts kick in as you open the door and run up towards the commotion in the kitchen.

You have no idea what you will find in the house - you prepare for an infected, an intruder, anything.

Somehow you didn’t even consider this though.

Ellie is standing over the sink and her arm - you think it’s cut. Then you realise.

It’s a burn.

Her arm is burning.

There’s a turned over bottle of kitchen chemicals next to the sink and you notice how your legs feel unsteady beneath you. You try and remember the basic first aid, the things you are supposed to and not do.

She needs you.

”Oh shit,“ she says, seeing your face. “I - I uh, spilt it. I didn’t - shit. It really fuckin’ hurts.” She looks so young, so scared and vulnerable at this moment.

“Okay, we’ve got this, Ellie. It’s all going to be okay.”

You exhale and then move.

You’re waiting for Joel. Ellie’s okay, her arm is clean and you’ve bandaged it as best as you can. There are hundreds of small alarms going off in your head. Something feels off about this incident; Ellie’s evasive, hiding something.

“Ellie - I -”

“I’m fine.”

“Did you - is everything okay, Ellie?”

“I just burnt my fucking arm so -” Ellie pauses. “Sorry - I’m okay, I’m fine. It’s uh, a good thing you were passing by.”

“When’s Joel due back?”

“Hey Ellie?” You ask, nervously twisting the edge of your shirt around your fingers. “Is - everything okay at home? Or school?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Why?”

You look at Ellie carefully, trying to sculpt your features into a clear message of ‘you can talk to me’. “I’m worried about you.”

“It was an accident,” Ellie says, looking at you with a piercing stare. “I was trying to clean the sink and -”

“Since when do you clean the sink?”

“Well, now we know why I don’t.” She reaches to touch the bandage and you shake your head.

“Try not to touch it. I don’t want it to get infected.”

“Okay.”

“You - you’re sure everything’s okay?”

“Yes!

Perhaps it’s foolish to think children can just be children these days, you’ve tried to shield Gabriel from so much. Maybe Ellie ….maybe she couldn’t be? You know enough about Ellie to know she’s an orphan, that her and Joel teamed up in Boston and that she’s become his family since then, his daughter.

Before you say anything else, Joel walks in. His face lights up when he sees you and Ellie only to very quickly fall when he sees her arm. He moves over to her quickly, his face wan and wrought with worry as he gets on his knees to examine her bandaged arm. “What the hell happened?”

“Ellie was cleaning the sink; she spilt the chemical on herself.”

“What?” Joel looks like he wants to be sick. He keeps looking at her arm and then at Ellie’s face.

“It was an accident,” Ellie says before looking over at you,  “Luckily you were stopping by and you turned out to be pretty good with first aid.”

Joel raises an eyebrow at you. “I’m hardly a doctor.”

“Thank you,” he says with relief, sitting back on his knees.

“She looked after me. She was really nice,” she adds in a quiet voice. “She uh - washed it and then dressed it and - I’m, I’m going to head upstairs to do some homework.”

“Ellie -”

There’s a moment of silence after Ellie leaves the room. The only sound is Joel’s bones creaking as he gets up from the floor and sits on the sofa.

You move to the armchair next to him, your heart racing as you know you need to say the words you’ve been thinking since you walked into his home today.

“I’m worried she hurt herself on purpose,” you whisper, hands clasped soberly in your lap.

Joel freezes. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“I know you think that -”

“I’ll talk to her, okay?” There’s something in his eyes, some small sense of recognition or something that you can tell he’s keeping from you.

“What aren’t you tellin’ me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can tell there’s something, Joel, give me some credit. I’ve survived long enough to read faces.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but you’re reading me wrong.”

“Joel, I - what are you keeping from me?”

“Don’t.” You understand where Gabe gets it from now. You can tell there’s more to this story and you want to push at it, poke the scab until it bleeds, know the truth because you only imagined a hundred terrible stories until you know this.

You’re both standing now, both looking at each other with equal parts desperation and concern. “Talk to me, Joel. I thought you trusted me -”

“You think you get to know everything right away? I have been honest with you, sweetheart, and I like you a lot. I didn’t think I’d find someone so - but that doesn’t mean you’ve got the right to ask that?”

“Joel -”

“I have never pushed you about your past, about your secrets. I have trusted you; I’ve let you into my home, my - Ellie’s home too.”

You feel your face heat with shame. “I just - I was worried about Ellie.”

“You don’t need to worry about her,” Joel snaps, “That’s my job.”

“Oh, fuck you, Joel.”

Joel swallows and exhales slowly. “I don’t wanna fight with you, please leave this. I swear I will tell you what you need to know.”

“I don’t want you to decide what I need to know.” There are moments, memories that rise to the surface like bile. You can’t fall into that trap again.

“Then what do you want? Total honesty, because that goes both ways, sweetheart.”

The conversation you overheard between Sean and Gabe flashes in your head, the many secrets you have kept from so many people, including Joel, over the years.

 Sometimes you wonder if you’ve told so many half-truths, you’ve forgotten what actually happened in the past now. If all that’s left are lightly edited ghosts of a life half-lived.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here,” you whisper.

“I can - I promise you that I would never hurt Ellie, or you, or Gabriel.” He swallows. “Not ever consciously at least. I can promise you that right here and right now. Is that enough? Can that be enough?”

“I - okay.”

“Okay.”

You reach out and meet Joel in the middle, letting him wrap his arms around you. “I’ll talk to Ellie, okay? I promise.”

“Thanks.”

You shrug your bag to your other shoulder around you as you lock the library door behind you. It’s still light outside but there’s a chill starting that shows that twilight is on its way. 

You turn around, ready to go home, when you notice there are two people standing ahead of you.

Sean and Beau are looking at you with grave expressions.

You take in Sean’s appearance first. His hands are fiercely dug into his hoodie pockets, he’s looking down and the way his leg is nervously shaking rings all too many alarm bells.

“Where’s Gabe?” you ask automatically, looking frantically around. Where is your son? What has happened to him?

 “It’s not about him,” Sean says with a devastated voice and somewhere you know you’re starting to piece this together. For Sean and Beau to look at you like this, for your best friend to be acting this way, there’s only a few things it could be. This isn’t normal - something is terribly wrong.

“Beau, just tell me. Please!”

Beau doesn’t say anything immediately, he looks at Sean and then sighs. After a second, he produces a small piece of paper out of his jeans pocket, unfolding it carefully.

It’s such a small piece of paper; you wonder what on Earth is on this, what could possibly cause such distress to both Sean and Beau.

There’s a sick feeling rising in your stomach, the sense of someone pulling a thread tightly around your organs.

“We need to talk about the Junction,” Beau says flatly, showing you the simple design on the paper that instantly sends your heart lurching to your stomach.

Oh.

Oh.

You knew things were going too well.

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